I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness...

I dislike being the centre of attention but the launch party is a concession I make in order for those close to me to express their adulation and pride at my success. Or their envy and bitterness. I don’t really mind which as both will make me feel special. To stifle this emotional outlet would be unfair on my friends.

My publicists have given me a budget of four hundred pounds. Like everyone in my position I had, as I scrawled my childish signature on the publisher’s contract fourteen months ago, imagined a lavish event with a red carpet, limousines, paparazzi, formalwear and invitations printed on gold-edged cards and mailed by private couriers. My expectations had dwindled since then, of course, but even so this paltry budget was something of a surprise.

I sent a whiney email to Pauline, largely because I’d managed a thousand words of the follow up to Clear History that day and was at a loose end. In a decidedly terse reply, she informed me that the offer was non-negotiable, and that I needn’t produce receipts. I immediately hired a small room above a tatty old pub in Acton that still hadn’t managed to air out all the fumes since the smoking ban was implemented, ordered a limited amount of booze, sent a load of Evites and gave the remaining two hundred pounds to Cheryl towards a ticket home for a week around Thanksgiving. She became teary when I handed the cash to her and hugged me while I fantasised about what I might do with the week to myself.

Neither Pauline nor Mavis is able to attend the party as they are busy organising James Hardy’s launch at the Kensington Roof Gardens next week. Apparently, catering to the needs of the various royals and dignitaries due to attend the event is “a major headache.” I swallow the stabbing jealousy this information causes and realise that my party could well run more smoothly in their absence. Their ghoulish auras could confuse other guests who might wrongly assume they missed the Halloween theme on the Evite.

Cheryl has been called into a late shift at Sky which simply opens the door for the potential Californication-style misadventures that have so far eluded me. (I understand that the producers only have Duchovny’s character yeaning for the love of the mother of his child to allow the average viewer to accept the naked joy of his endless sexual encounters with gorgeous filthy young LA bimbos).

I arrive half an hour after the start time and buy a pint downstairs. I am being a pleasure delayer: delaying the pleasure of the guests upstairs. I sit in the corner and receive a text message from my friend Brandon informing me that he has been under the weather and won’t be able to attend. I watch the door and no one I know comes through it.

Slightly alarmed now, I make my way upstairs and stand blinking in the dark emptiness of the hired room. The young man the pub has supplied as part of the package is seated behind the makeshift bar, head leaning back against the wall. He suddenly notices me and leaps to his feet, rubbing his eyes. He is playing some kind of techno at a low level over a portable CD player.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Another text, this time from Mark. His young child has a fever. An epidemic in London, perhaps.

I approach the barman. “Welcome,” he says in a heavy European accent.

“Polish?” I say.

“Oh, no sir. From Slovenia.” He opens a bottle of beer and hands it to me. “You are here for writer’s party then.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking around. “Am I early?”

“No,” he says, smiling. “Perhaps this writer man is not so popular, no?”

I force a smile. ”No, I guess not. Strange, I thought he was alright.”

“Oh, he is a friend of yours? You are close?”

“No,” I say. “Not so much.”

“Even he doesn’t come to own party. That says something, no?”

He laughs and I ask him for whisky. “He’s okay,” I say quietly.

“You are a good friend, I think. No one else come, but you come. That is…nice for you.”

“It’s still early.”

“Yes, of course. Still time.”

I drain the Scotch. “I have to make a phone call.”

He holds his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of non-obstruction. “Please. Don’t let me stop you.”

He makes a show of rearranging the bottles on the table and I walk to the far end of the room, calling my agent.

“Christopher! What’s up?”

“I’m dying here. How far away are you?”

“Away from what?”

“What do you mean, from what? Where are you?”

“Mama Mia baby. It’s cinema night.”

“Again? What about my launch party?”

“Oh, shit,” he shouts. “I forgot that was tonight. I’m sorry. My mum was supposed to remind me.”

“Your mum’s senile.”

“Yeah. I’ve got to get a new system.” Then, slightly muffled, “Why don’t you shut up?” followed by a distant ‘Fuck off.’

“Wait, are you in the cinema now?”

“Hold on mate. Yeah, yeah, shove it up your arse, I’m talking.”

“Sid, come now. There’s no one here.”

“No way. Meryl’s about to launch into ‘Dancing Queen.’” Immediately the opening bars flair into life so loud that it distorts and I slide the phone shut to stop its squawking.

I walk back over to the barman. “You may as well go home. No one’s coming.”

“You never know,” he says.

“If someone does come I can handle their drinks.”

“I prefer to stay. I don’t like to leave my job until it is finished. Then, no problem for me.”

“At least have a drink.”

“Oh sure, I will drink.”

We drink most of the bottle of Scotch. No one comes.

“I’m having problems with the world,” I tell the barman. “I find it harder to relate to people. Is it an age thing, I wonder?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Certainly an age thing. I feel the same way.”

“I’m bored by people’s opinion. I’m scared by people spending hours on Facebook.”

“Facebook is stupid.” He waves his hand as though sweeping Facebook away.

“People who know only one thing about someone that undermines their entire career of merit. Like, Woody Allen; paedophile. Kobe Bryant; rapist. Zidane; the head butt.”

“Zidane is one of the greatest footballers ever.”

“Exactly. If there’s one thing that makes me feel like an alien amongst humans it’s watching Saturday night TV through my fingers knowing millions of people are wedged in their sofas munching Pringles, braying with laughter and actually rooting for a celebrity to…dance on ice, or something.”

“Sure. Saturday nights should be out with the music and the girls.”

I gulp down a beer. “And look at the movies they love. Norbit and Chuck and Larry and Saw V.”

“Norbit wasn’t so bad.”

“Really?”

The barman shrugs.

“Well,” I say. “What about the music? The Kaiser Chiefs and McFly and fucking Westlife?”

“I don’t mind the Westlife so much.”

“What?”

“They are fun. They enjoy it.”

“I don’t want my music fun. I want the musicians to sweat and bleed and become junkies to suffer for their art.”

“That Pete Doherty man is a nasty man. A nasty filthy junkie man.”

“I like him,” I say quietly.

“Oh. Me, not so much.”

We sit in silence and finish the whisky. It is past midnight.

I get off my stool. “I should go, I suppose. Give me that bag. I’m going to take this booze home.” I begin to put bottles of beer in a plastic bag.

The barman stops me. “I can’t let you take this.”

“Why?”

“I get in trouble. This writer man must take it. He paid for it.”

“No,” I say, smiling. “It’s me. I’m the writer man.”

“No.” He stops me and takes the bag back. “Nice try but you are nice man. Writer man is a bad man. But the bad man gets the drink. It is not fair perhaps, but is the only way.”

I’m drunk but I resist showing him my driving licence to prove my identity. Instead I release the bag and stand up as straight as I can. “You are an honourable man,” I tell him.

“Yes, it is the only way,” he says again.

I salute him and make my way past the mayhem of the Red Back and along Uxbridge Road, fingering the speech still folded in my trouser pocket.

"Maniacal Bent..."

I hear a screech of tyres outside my house and look out of the bedroom window to see Sid, my agent, pulling up in his Beetle like something out of Grand Theft Auto. He hits the kerb with a front wheel and bounces up onto the pavement before jerking to a stop.

I get in the passenger side. “Just because you couldn’t afford a Porsche it’s not going to stop you driving like you could?”

“Perhaps the brakes could do with a tune up,” he muses, grinding the gears and scraping the underside of the chassis as we rejoin the road.

“You are sober, I hope? Best to check.”

“Sober and excited,” he says. “People have heard about you, Christopher. Word has spread. If Harper want to keep dragging their heels then we’ll show them we’ve got other options.”

“Sounds good.”

“Clearly their plan is to wait and see if there’s an audience before signing you on for a second book.”

“Clearly.”

“Well, rather than affording them the luxury of seeing it flop disastrously and then dropping you like a hot turd…”

“For Christ’s sake…”

“We force their hand and panic them into snapping you up into a long term contract.”

“Like the one you turned down in the first place?”

Sid waves his hand dismissively. “If we’d signed that contract we wouldn’t be in a position to negotiate now.”

“Right. How many other publishers are interested, exactly?”

Sid swerves the car unnecessarily wildly around a parked car. “Did you see that?” he mutters unconvincingly. “Madness.”

“Sid?”

“Hmm?”

“How many?”

He gestures out of the window at nothing. “The crazies are out today.”

“How many, Sid?”

“I’ll worry about the business side of things,” he says. “You concentrate on writing another winner.”

“Just the one, then.”

“Listen, this guy’s big in Sci-fi. Everyone knows Bilbo Hewlins.”

I sigh. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance he calls himself Bilbo for any reason other than The Lord of the fucking Rings is there please God?

Sid frowns in thought. “No, I think it’s a coincidence. He was called Bilbo ages before those films came out.”



We park in a residential cul-de-sac in Tadley. When Sid stops the engine even he pauses for thought.

“Why are we here?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “This is the address he gave.”

We get out and walk down a driveway half-swallowed by overgrown bushes encroaching from the lawn. The Volvo parked by the garage has scrape marks down its side made by twigs at the end of branches acting like stiff wooden fingers.

A small hand-written sign above the doorbell reads ‘Yes! this is Hewlins Publishers.’ Sid pushes the bell.

“Why a hot turd?” I ask him.

“Huh?”

“Why a hot turd?” I stress.

“Well, it’d burn your hand, wouldn’t it?”

“But surely you’d drop any turd, even if it was lukewarm?”

“Maybe you picked it up thinking it was just a stone or something, and you drop it because it’s hot rather than because it’s a turd.”

“So what was the point of it being a turd? Why not just a hot stone?”

He shrugs. “Your fingers would smell after a turd.”

I open my mouth to say something else then decide not to and the door opens.



Bilbo Hewlins is short and hairy and he lives in a semi-detached house that could only look more like a warren if his wife had given birth to rabbits rather than the free-range kids now running riot around the house. They all look the same and it is impossible to determine how many there are. Groaning bookshelves frame the walls and piles of books stand on almost every available inch of floor space. It is comforting even though I am secretly ambivalent towards them.

We sit on dirty armchairs in the living room and talk through crowds of children. Sid leans forward. “Basically, Harper are procrastinating just to show us who’s boss. We know they’re going to sign us up but we’re not sure we want to stay with them. We want to explore other options.”

“I see. I’ve never spoken to anyone who’s wanted to move from a major to an independent.”

“Alright,” Sid says, sagging into the chair. “They’re probably going to drop us and we’re looking for someone else to take us.”

I stare at Sid with my mouth open and Bilbo coughs uncomfortably. Eventually I recover the power of speech. “Remind me never to commit a crime with you,” I say. “I’ve never seen someone crumble for nothing like that.”

I look at Bilbo.

“It’s not even true. We don’t know what’s happening. But it would be nice to think we have other possibilities if it doesn’t work out for us there.”

He nods. “I understand. Well, it might be a breech of your contract to show me your work so far on the follow up, but of course if the situation does change then I would be happy to take a look.”

“What kind of advance are we talking?” Sid blurts out. “As my client is a published author we’d be looking for big numbers.”

Bilbo narrows his eyes. “I really don’t have the resources…”

“At least three figures,” Sid says.

Bilbo looks at me questioningly but I look away. “I might be able to manage that,” he says.

“Oh wait. I meant six. Six figures.”

Bilbo laughs without humour. He waves one hand at our surroundings. “This is a very small operation. A small company. We put out a lot of books but our sales are small. There’s not a great deal of money in this industry anymore. Especially in the specialist markets. We’re lucky to break even most years.”

“And a large first run of, say, a hundred thousand copies,” Sid says.

Bilbo looks at me again but I have found something desperately interesting on the chair cushion. He turns back to Sid. “If a major house such as Harper cannot make Christopher a success than how exactly can I? I don’t have the resources, the contacts, the bribes or the maniacal bent.”

“The quality of the work will shine through,” Sid claims.

“From what I’ve heard back from conventions, the quality isn’t exactly all that high,” Bilbo says. My chest compresses a little.

“Oh,” Sid says. “Damn.”

“Look, I haven’t read it and it may be great. If you send me a copy I promise I shall read it and get back to you. I can’t say more than that at this stage.”



Outside, I turn to Sid and fake a bright smile. “Well, I think that went well.”

He beams back. “Good. Yeah. You’re right. Great.”

We walk to his car and I suddenly feel utterly alone in the universe.

"Temple Trample..."

Not only does my father email to invite me to lunch - his treat - but he actually makes the trip to London by train to meet me. He asks me to pick the restaurant, so, through a total lack of imagination, I choose Christopher’s in Covent Garden.

As I wait for my father to show up I try to think of things to say that aren’t bitter, hurtful or childish.

“My name’s Christopher as well,” I tell the pretty waitress as she pours my bottle of beer into a glass.

“Wow,” she says, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. In a place like this the staff is supposed to treat its customers reverentially but they see through me.

“If I was wearing a suit would you take me seriously?” I ask her.

“Possibly,” she says, smiling, and she takes the empty bottle away as my father arrives.

I stand and we shake hands. “You’re married, Christopher,” he says, looking at the departing waitress. We sit.

“There’s something you have to understand about me,” I tell him. “Clearly I’m not the Lothario that you were at my age because women have not the remotest interest in me. It doesn’t matter how flirtatious I am, how witty or interesting, they don’t care. If I was trapped on a desert island for years with an averagely attractive woman and it was just the two of us, not another man around or any possibility of one arriving, we’d be friends at best.”

“Don’t be absurd. What about Cheryl?”

“Proof that miracles can happen. Why do you think I married her? Apart from not being able to afford to live alone of course.”

“I’m sure. What about that other girl, the one with the birthmark that used to hang around you at university?”

“Just friends. And I’d slip her some cash to act loving whenever family came round.”

He watches me with a look of weathered patience.

“Of course, Kenneth,” I say. “You married every woman who showed the least interest in you.”

“What’s this ‘Kenneth’ nonsense?”

“’Dad’ sounds so uncouth. I think I should call you by your name.”

“I don’t like it.”

“All the cool kids are doing it.”

“Is that what you are then? Cool?”

“You better believe it, Daddio.”

He holds his hands out, palms up. “Daddy. That’s better.”

This is the funniest joke I’ve ever heard him make so I decide to give him a break.

“I’d like to order wine,” he says. “But you’ve already got a beer.”

“I can do both. Come on, neither of us are driving.”

We both order steaks and he chooses a wine that I approve with a confident nod of my head even though I don’t even understand what he says. When a dribble is poured into his glass for tasting he swills it round his mouth with sucking motions I can actually hear and considers it for an indecently long period before he gestures for the glasses to be filled.

“This is a step up from the McDonald’s you used to take me to every other Saturday afternoon,” I say.

“Perhaps. That’s where you wanted to go when you were that age.”

“Maybe I would have liked a steakhouse if you had taken me.”

“Perhaps,” he says again.

We drink our wine and look out over Wellington Street and The Strand. It is teeming.

“There are too many people in this city,” my father says. “Too many people in the world. I thought that when I was your age but it’s transformed beyond comprehension in the last thirty years. If it keeps going I’m glad I won’t be alive in another thirty. Look at this latest temple trample in India. Put a million people in one place and there’re bound to be problems.”

I say nothing and look at my wine.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing. I’m just staying away from any conversation potentially involving immigration. Ealing has already all but banned my book because of my comments about the Polish.”

“What have they said?”

“Nothing. If there was a local headline saying ‘Don’t Buy This Book’ or something it would be fantastic. Any negative publicity fuels sales. Instead there’s just a wall of silence. They’re very clever. Meanwhile the residents of Warsaw are desperate to get their hands on it and they won’t be able to.”

“I didn’t realise they had this power. I thought they just built the houses.”

“Badly,” I say. Then, “Damn it.”

“No one’s listening.”

The food arrives and I cut into the medium rare steak, letting the fries soak up the blood deliciously.

“Terrible thing, this economy crisis,” he says.

“I guess.”

“Worrying times. What do you make of it?”

“I’m not worried. I don’t understand it and I don’t care. Whatever happens happens.”

“You should care. We could be entering a severe depression.”

“Maybe I’d care if I owned anything or had any money. As long as people keep buying shite from shopping telly channels I’ll scrape a living. It used to be that no matter how poor people were they’d always find cash for booze and fags. Add anything that spins on a Lazy Susan on TV to that list.”

“You can’t just bury your head in the sand.”

“Why do you care anyway? You’re retired and your house is paid off.”

“I have stocks and shares.”

“Don’t understand that either. Just keep it in a bank and the government will bail it out if necessary. I’m intrigued, what lures you out from your country haven? Bored of pottering around in your garden and watching the cricket?”

He is quiet for a few seconds, then he brings from his brief case a folded newspaper. “It seems perhaps I have done you a disservice.”

“Really? In what way?”

“I should have taken your writing a little more seriously.”

My eyes flick to the paper. “Oh yeah?”

“The Financial Times, no less.” He pats the paper. It is his bible.

“Let me see!”

“Oh, no, I just bought this. It was a few days ago now.”

“Oh. Was it a positive review?”

“It wasn’t a review. Just a mention. A list of upcoming releases.”

“Oh.”

“But when I saw your name and the title of the book…It suddenly seemed real.”

I am flushed with pride at my dad’s acknowledgement. “What did you think before? That I was making it up?”

“No, no. Perhaps I didn’t fully grasp how big a publication it is. You’re going to have to start worrying about your finances soon.”

“It’s not big. It probably won’t change my finances.”

“It’s mentioned in the FT. Do you know how many people read that?”

“No. But even if it’s millions, so what? How many of the other books mentioned alongside mine are you going to buy?”

He looks at the paper thoughtfully. “Oh.”

“Yes. If it gets a good review, then maybe. I’m hoping for the best.”

He nods. “I see.”

“Does that change it all back again now? Or does it still seem real?”

“It still seems real,” he says. But he had to think about it. We finish our steaks, the brief emotional spike in the lunch flat lined once more.

"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.