So Many Women, So Little Chance...

Six months ago I went into Borders on Charing Cross Road to see which authors my book would nestle between on the shelves. But after a few seconds in the sci-fi section I was red and sweating with embarrassment and I fled out of the shop and into Soho and relieved my trembling with liquor.

Today though, I am wearing one of five ‘Christopher Hardy – King of Sci-fi’ T-shirts that I had a local printing shop knock up. In about thirty seconds from the look of them. But the point is made; a very childish, unfocused point vaguely taking the piss out of Harper Collins for pigeon-holing me into a genre, but a point nonetheless. Unfortunately it’s a joke that about five people on Earth might understand.

That quickly drops to four when I meet my agent Sid for a pub lunch and he grins broadly. “Hey, that’s fantastic! Can I have one?” I pull one out of my bag and toss it to him because I suspected, depressingly, that he wouldn’t get it.

“That’s great advertising,” he says, when I get back from the bar. He had been sitting without a drink and made no effort to buy a round. “We should get one for everyone we know.”

“How about a sandwich board?” I suggest. “We could put one on your mother and just let her wander the streets all day.”

“Yeah…” He strokes his chin and actually contemplates it. “The trouble is, people tend to assume sandwich boarders are mad.”

“Well, your mum is mad.”

“Yeah. It wouldn’t work.” He sips his pint. “That’s a shame. A shame.”

I look around for famous media types but I don’t think they drink in the John Snow. “How did you tear yourself away from work?”

“Things were a bit quiet today to be honest.”

“When are they ever not quiet, Sid?”

He ignores me. “I’m looking to supplement my income.”

“How?”

“I need to find a girlfriend with a job.”

“I suppose that’s one way.”

“I spent the morning hanging around outside the Stockwell Refugee Women’s Centre.”

I shake my head. “Why?”

“They won’t let me in.”

“I mean…” I shout, then I take a breath and a gulp of my drink. Then, in a level voice, “I mean, why not join a dating agency?”

“Nah. Think of how desperate those people must be. Who wants to meet desperate people? Better for me to hang outside the refugee centre.”

“Right.”

“I’ve got a great spot on a park bench across the street. I can see them all coming in and out. There’re some real boilers of course, but also some beautiful slim Eastern European types. And some lovely Asians. Ah, I can’t decide who to approach.”

“I think either way the end result will be the same.”

“Think how grateful they’ll be. I’ll give them a place to live, they’ll be allowed to stay in the country. And then I’ll send them out on a little cleaning job or something. Perfect.”

“I can’t see a flaw.”

“Well, there is one. I don’t want to end up with one who’s had any female genital mutilation. Apparently it’s a problem with some of them.” He sighs. “That’ll be a tough subject to broach.”

I finish my beer. “I think I need something stronger,” I say.

I come back with whiskeys. Sid hands me something in a plastic bag. I unwrap it and hold my book.

“It’s the page proof. It’s not finalised, but it’s similar to what will end up in the shops.”

I stroke the cover and then flick through the pages. There is no THE END on the last page. It feels like an indication that there will be a second book. I ask Sid what he thinks.

“I think if I had to bet I would say that there will be another. They like their series’.”

“Then what are they waiting for?”

“Well, if the reviews and the sales are both dreadful then they might pass.”

“Why would the reviews be dreadful?”

“They might think it’s rubbish.”

“Oh God. What if it is?”

“I don’t think it is. But if it sells then it doesn’t matter.”

“Right. I’m going to do some promotion. I’m going to do those stupid conventions. I’ll do reading groups.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I will. At the moment I spend my life in my flat playing Mario Kart and pushing sofa cushions back into place. I want it to be a bestseller.”

“I think Dan Brown and that Harry Potter woman have got that list sewn up for the next eight years.”

“I can try, dammit. I just don’t see why Harper can’t do more.”

“They’ve got their favourites. And for whatever reason, whether it’s your belligerence, your writing, or the genre, you ain’t one of them.”

We finish our drinks. Neither of us orders food.



Back at home I lie on my living room floor turning every page of the proof and smelling the print. It feels like something significant, even if what’s written there isn’t that good. I can’t tell anymore.

Then the phone rings. A young woman introduces herself. “I understand that you’ve worked with Dave Rock JR.”

“Yes. I think he used to freelance at Bid a year ago.”

“Well we’ve been using him on the cricket. We’ve got a Caribbean tour starting in September and Dave can’t do it. He recommended you highly and says you’re a great camera op. Would you be available? It will be for three months.”

“Three months?”

“Yes, from late September until mid-December.”

I rub my head and sigh. “I have a book coming out in October.”

“Oh right,” she says, totally uninterested. “So…”

“I’d love to but I have to do promotion…”

“Okay, no problem,” she says.

“Maybe next time?”

“Yes, I’ll keep you in mind,” she lies and hangs up.

I push the book and the phone away and lie flat on the floor with my nose breathing up carpet dirt, unable to move.

"Are You Keeping Fit?"

Not a particularly unusual question, except that it wasn’t what I was expecting as the opening gambit on my first live radio interview. Cheryl and I had rehearsed for an hour or so last night, going over a few questions we thought might come up, but this was not one that we had practised.

The pressure is low because this a local Internet radio station with a tiny audience, albeit an audience who may well prove receptive to a local success story. But when Mandy, the pixie-like PA meets me at reception I tell her that I am impressed by the size of the setup. I nod at the dozens of people storming around holding clipboards and books, and the long queue stretching from the receptionist to the sliding doors.

“Oh no,” she says. “That’s the reception for Ealing Borough Council. We’re off in this side room.” She leads me into a small office with one desk and a door – open – leading to a tiny audio booth where a small, harassed middle-aged man in a tweed jacket is looking through a stack of CDs as though he has no comprehension of what they are for.

I spread my arms. “This is it, then.”

“This is our whole setup,” she confirms. “Nice and laid back.”

“I like it,” I say because it is my turn to say something.

“I’m trying to make it better,” she says. “More professional. Sometimes it seems that no one except me is too bothered.”

“Do what you can and move on,” I say.

She nods and from nowhere there is an unexpectedly sticky atmosphere of mutual attraction. She looks at my ring finger. “You’re married,” she says, giving a rueful smile.

“This?” I say, holding my finger up. “This is just an unfortunate birthmark. A 3-D, gold-coloured birthmark. Let’s do dinner and drinks.”

She laughs and turns to the DJ who is holding the back of a CD case inches in front of his face. “Matthew? Our guest is here.”

He looks up. “Send her in.”

Mandy turns back and sighs. “Good luck.” She gestures to the door and I walk through.

The DJ stands up in obvious confusion and holds a hand out. “Oh, hello old chap.”

I shake his hand. “Christopher Hardy,” I say.

“Ah.” He shuffles through some papers and I sit opposite him at one of the two guest mics. “Got yer,” he says.

He reads though his notes and then suddenly looks up at something. He frowns and puts his headphones on. I do the same. There is silence, and probably has been for some time. He pushes a fader up. “That was…” He searches through more papers. “Some music. Now we have our guest of the day. Welcome to Ealing FM!”

“Thank you. I’m Christopher Hardy.”

“Yes you are. Are you keeping fit?”

I am stuck for a second, unsure of how literally to take the question. Am I being stupid? Does it mean something else? I look out of the window and see Mandy gesturing for me to answer. “Well, actually, I have just started swimming again. I’m going a few times a week, doing about a mile each time…”

“Wow, without stopping?”

“No, there’s no need to do that anymore. Just take plenty of breaks and call it Interval training. Essentially I’m doing just enough to feel less guilty about drinking afterwards.”

“So…Clear History.”

“Yep.” He nods at me, smiling. “That’s the name of my book.”

“I was fiddling with my computer the other day…”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. And I saw Clear History when I tried to do something or other. Is it named after computers?”

“Erm, well not exactly. I mean, obviously I’m aware of the connection. I suppose that firstly, Clear History sounds good to me. It feels nice to say. And secondly, I like the idea that every time people see it on their computer they will think of the book. Like when people use the phrase Dire Straits, everyone automatically thinks of the band. Or if someone said to me, ‘He’s keeping the Status Quo,’ I could never hear that without singing ‘Whatever you want duh-duh, duh-duh,’ you know?”

He shakes his head. “Status Quo?”

“Yes. The band, famous for their two-chord songs and the ponytails?”

“I’m not familiar. My daughter would probably know. She keeps up to date with all the new groups.” He looks at his notes. “I was intrigued by the press release your publishers sent me. They describe it as ‘sky fi.’ Perhaps you could explain that to us.”

I laugh but he stares at me, straight-faced. “Erm, I think that’s sci-fi, as in science fiction.”

“Oh right, that’s what it stands for. Very clever. Do you like being a sci-fi writer then?”

“Err…sure. I mean, I wrote the book. I suppose I don’t really know why there has to be such a big distinction between genres. People should be able to enjoy all different kind of stories. There certainly isn’t such a big deal made about it in cinema, for instance. Futuristic thrillers are some of the biggest box office draws. It seems that people are more likely to go and watch a sci-fi movie than read a sci-fi book, and I think that partly has to do with the way they’re marketed. I think my book can fit within the sci-fi genre, but it also has elements of action thriller and mystery and suspense. I also like to think that it explores human emotion just as effectively as the majority of novels considered more mainstream.”

Matthew is sorting though papers and there is a period of silence that feels excruciating. Finally he looks up, startled, as though suddenly remembering that he is hosting a radio show.

“What happens in the book, then?”

“Well…the book’s about ninety-thousand words long, so quite a lot happens. I’m not sure I can tell you everything that happens. Perhaps you mean I should give a general overview of the plot?”

“What happens in chapter one?”

I laugh quietly. “There’s a prologue that people can read online, then in chapter one, two of the main characters are introduced. They are two new recruits to the police force of the Company, and they are plunged into a terrible dilemma almost immediately when…”

Matthew looks at the clock on the wall. “Sorry. We have to play a record.”

He plays some soft rock and then we stare at each other across the toy-like mixing desk. “Actually, I’ve got to run,” I say.

“Really?”

I stand up. “Sorry. Commitments.”

He looks downcast. “I don’t know how I’m going to fill the next three hours.”

In the council reception, Mandy gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s like he’s just arrived from a distant galaxy and found himself on a radio station. Why don’t you do a show?”

“I don’t really want it on my CV.”



Cheryl is reading a magazine when I get in. “Do you think Amazon’s pre-orders have rocketed up?” I say.

“What happened?”

“What? You didn’t hear it?”

“I couldn’t hear anything. All I could hear was him and you, very distant.”

“The idiot must have forgotten to fade my mic up,” I say, incredulous. “Jesus. I’m glad I didn’t stay for the whole show.”

“Surely someone would have phoned in and told them?”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh yeah. Let’s watch a DVD.”

"Romanticised Hemmingway Fixation..."

I assumed that my brother’s visit would be a deathly, crushingly tedious affair, full of unreasonable accusations, tantrums and the dredging of past errors. And God knows what he’d be like. But it’s okay because I have a Wii and so we can sit next to each other and play Mario Kart and not have conversation as the main focus of the afternoon.

Brian was sent over to West London for some reason (try as I might I cannot remember who he works for or what he does – just a tedious office job, I assume) and has used the opportunity not to return to the office (wherever that is). For the first time in fourteen years or so we play together and it is an easy way to get along, cheating really, like taking a first date to the cinema. A quick drink afterwards – who can’t make one drink go well? And who can’t sit and play a video game with someone else if that’s what you’re into? And Brian is into it. He never stopped playing them every night. He owns all the consoles and that is how he spends his evenings.

Except he is still rubbish. He plays every night but he never really got good at any of them. It is not in his make-up to excel. Merely to take part and pass time. We play online together against people from around the world and I don’t even mind that the split screen is making it harder and that my Virtual Ranking is dropping because we are getting on and that is a relief.

We play and talk intermittently, short conversations taking minutes, interspersed with cries of frustration or delight. “Hope I’m not interrupting your writing,” Brian says, using a forced break after driving his kart into some lava as an opportunity to push his glasses up his nose.

“I’m not writing today,” I say. “I only write every other day.”

“How come?”

“I can only write when I drink whiskey but I can’t write at all when I’m hung-over. Today is my recovery day.”

Brian pointed at my can of lager. “But you’re drinking now.”

“Yes. I have to drink enough to sleep but not to feel ill tomorrow. It’s a delicate balancing act. It gets easier with practice.”

“Whiskey!” Brian scoffs. He will sip one glass of bitter over the course of the three hours he is in my house. “That’s just a crutch. Have you got some romanticised Hemmingway fixation?”

“Probably,” I say. “You’ve never been drunk.”

“Maybe I should. What’s the most drunk you’ve ever been?”

“Hmmm. That was probably when I went into some restaurant after the pub. You know some places have a tank where you can select the fish you want them to cook you?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I pointed to one – or near one – and said ‘I want that fish please.’ And the man said ‘Sir. That’s just our goldfish bowl.’ There was no way of recovering from that with any dignity. But luckily I was drunk so that wasn’t a concern.”

“Sounds pretty stupid,” Brian says.

“Yes. It is. But you asked me.”

We play in silence for awhile. Then Brian says my name.

“I’m right here,” I say.

“Do you miss Mum?”

“Of course. I know what you’re thinking. Why couldn’t it have been dad, right?”

“No, that’s not what I’m thinking. I just think it’s important that we do miss her.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. She died before her time.”

“She was overweight, though.”

The race has ended and I look at my brother. “I’m saying this because I care, but Brian, do you think maybe you should shed a few pounds? Do some exercise. Eat a bit less.”

Brian reddens. “How about I keep eating and you keep drinking and we’ll see who dies first?”

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, taking a gulp.

“It’s funny. I keep thinking back to something that happened when I was about thirteen. You must have been eleven. Remember she took us to Euro Disney? Just after Dad…moved out.”

“Jesus. It’s been called Disneyland Paris for how long now? And you still call it Euro Disney.”

“That’s what it was called then, dickhead.”

“Sorry, carry on.”

“We got on a shuttle bus to take us back to the hotel. It was crowded and when we got on there was one seat left. Mum tried to sit down but this woman stopped her, talking in French and pointing at this man. The man gestured for Mum to sit down but the woman still stopped her. Then Mum forced her over and sat down and the woman punched her on the arm. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah. That was weird. Mum just ignored her.”

“You were probably too young to do anything, but I should have. I just stood there, frozen. Someone punched my Mum and I did nothing.”

“Well, what could you have done? Leaned over and slapped the woman in the face?”

“Maybe I should have.”

“It happened very quickly, Brian.”

“Even so. What would you do if some girl punched Cheryl?”

“Tell you what. If that ever happens, I’ll call you over and we’ll beat the shit out of her, okay?”

We play in silence for awhile. I feel worse than I let on because I know that we were both a few years older than Brian remembers.

I win a race. Brian comes seventh. “I have a favour to ask,” he says eventually.

“Mmm.”

“I’d like to borrow some money.”

I look at him. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just want to do something.”

“If you can’t tell me what for, then, you’re my brother, I’ll do what I can. But it might be nice if you were able to be a little more specific.”

“I need a holiday. I want to get away for a week or two.”

I risk another glance in his direction even though it could send me careering off the track. “Oh really? A holiday? Anywhere nice?”

“The Caribbean, maybe. Anywhere there. I’m not fussy.”

“The Caribbean? Ooh, how lovely.”

“I can sense sarcasm.”

“Oh really? Sorry, I’m just slightly taken aback by someone asking me to fund their tropical beach holiday. You know what most people who want a holiday do? They save up their money for months and months and then pay for it themselves.”

Brian sighed. “Some of us in the family are a little disappointed that you haven’t offered to share some of your success.”

“Success?”

“Okay, you’ve done the all the work, and you deserve it, but Sharon and I weren’t lucky enough to have been born with your talent. And families should stick together. A little sharing with your siblings wouldn’t go amiss, is all I’m saying.”

“Wait. You think I’ve got money? From the book? It isn’t even out yet!”

“Come on, Christopher. You’re having a book published by a major company. There are advances and international sales and stuff. You must be rolling in it. I’ve done my research.”

“Do you know how much my advance was, Brian?” He just looks at me. “Ten thousand pounds. Nothing to be sniffed at, of course. But the days I’ve had to take off from my proper job in the last year to write and re-write mean I’ve made a loss. A significant loss. Why do you think I’d still be living here if I had money?”

Brian looks round at the small flat with damp patches on the wall and the rotting concrete back yard as though this hasn’t occurred to him. “Oh.”

“Mum left enough for a holiday.”

“I don’t want a holiday. I hate holidays. I was just using it as a reason.”

“Listen. If by some miracle my book sells well and I make some money then I will be happy to help out you and Sharon. But in the mean time I have to go into QVC tomorrow and shoot close ups of jewellery until 2am and motivate myself to write on my breaks. Alright?”

“Fair enough.” We carry on playing. “Sharon won’t be happy though. She had her heart set on a new kitchen.”

I shake my head and send a homing missile towards Brian’s kart.





Free Counter

Publicity Juggernaut

It is just over three months to lift-off, and the publicity juggernaut is revving up.

By that I mean that Pauline has sent me a list of things that I should do. “I see that Black Kids’ second single went straight in at number thirty-six,” she added. “Nice job picking them as the next big thing.”

“Are you marketing them on the side?” I email her back.


Picking an item from the list at random, I call my local library. I have no idea where my local library is, having never belonged to one, but the Internet directs me to Acton. An Indian man answers the phone.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“Yes, my name’s Christopher Hardy. I live right by you and I’m having a novel published in a few months.”

“Well bully for you, sir. Why are you telling me this?”

“Err…Well, I thought you might be interested in doing some kind of event for the launch or something.”

“What kind of event do you think we do? It’s a library. We have books and a few CDs that people can come and take out and enjoy. Do you think I have time to organise a party? Perhaps you would like me to heat up some sausage rolls and bake a cake for you?”

“I didn’t think you’d allow food in a library…”

“No we don’t sir. Now please I must get on.”

He hangs up and I cross the item off my list.



To my surprise, the local sales rep agrees to meet me for lunch (on his expense account) in my local pub. I haven’t worked in over three weeks and I would spend an hour with a contestant on The Apprentice if he paid for the meal.

Mick introduces himself with a firm handshake. He is all suit and hair gel and aftershave. I order a burger and a pint and to my disappointment Mick just has a lime soda. “Have a pint,” I urge.

“I spend all day driving around. I gave up boozing altogether soon after I got the job.” We find a table and sit down. “I heard you like your drink. Don’t you worry about your health?”

“Haven’t you heard? The economy is in global meltdown. Pensions and the NHS won’t exist by the time I reach retirement age. Aiming to live a long life is no longer economically viable.”

“But you could save the money you’d spend on alcohol and fund your old age instead.”

“Well, you have a point.” I gulp my beer. “So, how’s the book selling? I’m picturing posters smothering the windows of WH Smith’s, billboards dominating the city streets, a primetime television advertising campaign…”

Mick laughs. “You think that people who watch ITV read books? All I can do is get it into the shops.”

“And have you?”

“Some of them. All the major Waterstones and Borders will have copies. I was surprised that Harper Collins has labelled it sci-fi though. So I insisted on selling it as a futuristic thriller.”

My eyes widen. “You did? That’s great.”

“Yeah. It might have backfired a little.” I wait for him to continue. “I sort of realised that I already had too many straight fiction books and yours might have got a bit lost in the crowd. It was then that I realised why Harper Collins were marketing it as sci-fi. There is method in their madness.” He points his finger and smiles.

“So what’s happening?”

“Well, it lost a bit of ground. The shops were a bit confused. At least when it’s labelled as a particular genre it gets sold in a small section of a shop and has a better chance of being reached by a particular audience. So…it will be in the sci-fi section.”

“But not WH Smith’s?”

“Listen, these book series are slow burners. When the second volume comes out, everyone will want to stock it, as well as back orders of the first.”

“If it sells enough for there to be a second volume.”

“Well, there is that.”

“Has it sold well to the Ealing borough independents?”

“To be honest, the local market really didn’t seem interested. I’ve never had that before. Maybe we can try your hometown. Where did you grow up?”

“Dartford.”

“Dartford? Jesus. I’m not going there.”

“Oh.”

“But apparently Jeff Black up in the North East has been doing well with it.” He jumps up. “I’ll keep you informed.”

“My food hasn’t even got here.”

“Sorry. Got to run. Lots of people are clamouring to see James Hardy’s book.”



Back at the flat, I steel myself and call a local Internet radio station and give my spiel.

“Oh, wonderful,” the girl says. “We’re always looking to get local talent on.”

“Sorry? I mean, yes, excellent.”

“We’d definitely like to get you on for an interview and a reading, if it’s suitable for broadcast.”

“Well that would be great. I mean, I’ll make it clean. What’s your audience size?”

“We’re on the Internet so we have the potential for about four billion people listening at any time.”

“Right. And in actuality?”

“Couple of hundred.”

“Okay. Well let’s do it.”

“Cool. So what type of book is it Christopher?”

“It’s a futuristic…” I trail off, gazing into space.

“I’m sorry?”

“Sci-fi,” I say. “It’s a sci-fi novel.”

Hardy, Christopher, 1976-

It has now been fifteen days since I last worked.

Usually I love being at home doing nothing. It is wonderful to earn enough to survive on a couple of day’s work a week and have the freedom to laze about the flat reading, watching DVDs, drinking wine before dinnertime. Yet, because I have literally no work lined up at any point in the future, every thing I do is tinged with an edge of anxiety and guilt. I should be doing more to find freelance camera work rather than waiting for phone calls from existing employers. But cold calling companies is the most depressing and generally pointless action I can think of. So I put up with the anxiety and guilt, because it is easier.

Wimbledon is on. I hate Wimbledon. Hate it hate it hate it. Which is strange because tennis is my favourite sport and Wimbledon is the greatest sporting event on our planet. Perhaps I should say, I hate being in England when Wimbledon is on. All the pathetic wonky-toothed old wankers in their Union Jack hats and shirts waving flags. At least there’s less of that now that Henman has retired and we have a Scot as the only possible British winner. It would be nice if Murray won, but the public would still be waiting for the next Englishman even as they applauded the embarrassingly filthy-mouthed brat.

For the vast majority of Brits, tennis simply does not exist outside of these two weeks. Which is fine. Who wants to follow forty-eight weeks of largely mute men in baseball caps slugging a piece of furry rubber over a net? Well, some of us do. But the others, the Great British Public, suddenly feel they have a right to an opinion on tennis, basing all their information on one fortnight. And, of course, all they do is complain. In their ignorance, one of our greatest individual sportsman in years was largely maligned by the “sports fans” for being a loser, a failure, rather than the gloriously brave last-of-the-serve-and-volleyers swashbuckling his way through a field of more talented and powerful players year after year. The truth is the fat, burger-munching moaning cynical public don’t deserve a British champion any more than they deserve us to win the World Cup.

Today I shower and then study myself in the mirror with masochistic scrutiny. I practise a tennis player fist pump and try to find a way that doesn’t make me look foolish. My flab wobbles slightly. I raise my hands and lace my fingers behind my head. If my body could just look like this all the time I would feel okay.

I fiddle with iTunes for a while and then open a book by Martin Amis I’ve been reading for five months. After a few sentences I absently scan the first few pages when something gives me the chills. I grab my phone and dial my editor at Harper Collins.

“Chris speaking.”

“It’s Christopher Hardy here,” I say.

There is a pause, during which I imagine he mouths obscenities at the wall. Then, “What’s up, Christopher?”

“Will my book have Hardy, Christopher, 1976- ?”

“Will it what?”

“On the copyright thingy page, will it say my name with the year of my birth and then a dash? I find it rather ominous.”

“I really don’t know. Why does it bother you?”

“It’s an unnecessary reminder of the inevitability of death. It’s like someone’s waiting with a pen poised over the page waiting to ink in the year of my demise.”

“You think that it somehow jinxes you? That you might die before your time?”

“It’s creepy.”

“I really have no idea how that decision is arrived at, Christopher. I’m very busy.” I say nothing until he is forced to say “Goodbye” and hang up.

I have been fairly good about writing my second novel. I try to get at least two hundred words down a day. Today, though, as soon as I get into some sort of zone, a call from my agent Sid interrupts me. I think about pushing ‘reject’ but the spell is already broken.

“What’s the news?” I bark.

“Oh, nothing.” He yawns and instantly brings me down. “Just ringing for a chat.”

“I’m in the middle of writing actually.”

“Oh great, great,” he says, totally uninterested. “I’m just in the office, milling around.”

“You haven’t got anything to do?”

“Not really. Things are quite quiet this week.”

“Why go into the office at all? Why not just stay at home and keep your mobile on?”

“Well, my mum’s moved in and she’s senile so I’m looking after her.”

“What, she’s moved into the office?”

“No, no, she’s at home. I can’t stand being around her twenty-four hours a day so the office is really an escape.”

“Who looks after during the day?”

“No one. I just lock the doors and windows so she can’t get out. I put some music on quite loud so that she doesn’t bother the neighbours. She’s fine. I just clean her up when I get home and comfort her a bit and it’s okay.” He yawns again and I can hear him stretching. “Keeping yourself busy?”

“Just trying to write. Doddering around.”

“Do you get bored?”

“I don’t know. How do you know when you’re bored?”

“When you start going to the toilet for something to do, it’s time to get out of the house.”

“Then I’m not bored. I like doing nothing.”

“Me too. I need to get some furniture for Mum’s stuff but I can’t be bothered.”

“Just order from Ikea or something.”

“I can’t afford Ikea. I was thinking of going more downmarket. Perhaps…Pikea.” He giggles.

“Jesus,” I say, smiling. “How long have you been waiting to use that?”

“About three weeks.”

“I think this is a good time to end the conversation,” I say. “Good bye.”

I try to write for a few minutes but the football is on soon and I’m tired of thinking and I have made an effort at least. Cheryl will be home soon. She is upset because yesterday, as I was calling her mobile, she had an ironic car crash while trying to clamp her Bluetooth headset to her ear. When she got home (it is still driveable) I told her that I hadn’t renewed the car insurance and I kept up the joke for a good couple of hours, long after she had burst into tears and I had become scared to admit the truth. Almost twenty-four hours later, she is still sulking. I should put some clothes on and get some £3.99 flowers from the petrol station. But the thought of putting socks on bores me so instead I lie down in front of Wimbledon and try not to get annoyed.

"The End..."

My editor, Chris, actually moves his hand sideways as he says this as though the words will appear in the air.

“A writer’s favourite two words to write,” Sid, my agent, says. “I imagine.”

“You’re correct,” I, the writer, tell him. “For the second book I wrote those first just to experience the joyful elation they bring. Unfortunately I still had eighty thousand words to write.”

“Why didn’t you write them for the first book?” Chris asks.

“What do you mean?”

We’re sitting in the café that has become our regular meeting place in the last three months. Not that we meet often. Chris has James Hardy to worry about. He leans forward. “Clear History. The book we’re actually publishing now.”

“What about it?”

“’The End.’ Why didn’t you put that at the end of the manuscript?”

I shrug. “What’s the point? I mean, if you get to the end of a book and you don’t know it’s the end then you’ve got serious problems. It’s pretty fucking obvious when you’ve reached the end of a book. There’re no more pages for a start.”

“Unless they’ve been ripped out,” Sid suggests.

“Good point.”

Chris zones out now when Sid and I talk to each other. He tries again. “Reaching the end of a good novel is the most satisfying experience any consumer of art can enjoy.”

“What about Christopher’s book?” Sid cracks.

Chris ignores him. “Much more satisfying than the end of a film or LP or anything else.”

“I dunno,” I say. “Completing a difficult video game can be intensely rewarding.”

“Perhaps,” Chris sighs. “Look, I’m just concerned that people reaching the end of the book, however many or few that may be, might not experience the full joy of finally getting through it.”

Sid laughs, but I don’t think he really knows why.

Chris ignores him again. “The end of the novel is a touch…ambiguous. ‘The End’ will help them close their relationship with your book.”

“The way it ends emphasises the futility of war and religion,” I say.

“Mmm…” Chris murmurs.

“If it was a film then the camera would pull back further and further and the sound would fade and then the picture.”

“It’s not a film though.”

“And anyway, it’s not the end, is it? There’s going to be a whole series.”

“Really?” Chris asks, panicked. “They’ve signed off on that?”

“Not yet.”

Chris relaxes and sips his coffee. “Well, I’m thinking of adding it.”

“Oh really?” I ask, bristling. “Well, I don’t want it.” I turn to my agent. “Sid?”

He looks up. “What?”

I motion for him to say something. He shakes his head, confused. “We don’t want it, do we?”

“Want what?”

Chris closes his eyes for a second. “I think we should add ‘The End’ to the book.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” Sid says.

“Oh, for fff…” I put my hands over my face.

“No, I mean, don’t forget that when I read it I didn’t realise it was the end of the book.”

“You are not a typical reader,” I say. “In fact, you never read books.”

“Neither do you. Anyway, I read the first twenty pages of the new one.”

“How many pages have you written?” Chris asks me, only mildly interested.

“Twenty.”

“Really? Is that all?”

“Well, with you lot delaying your decision on a second book, what’s the rush?”

“If they do commission it then the deadline’s going to be tight. For your sake you should get at least half of it written.”

“And if it doesn’t get commissioned I’ll have wasted my time.”

“But you’re a writer. Surely you’d be writing anyway.”

“Why?”

“Well, surely you’re driven to it?”

“Not really,” I say. “In fact, I really don’t like it much at all.”

Chris shakes his head. I turn to Sid. “What did you think of the new pages, anyway?”

“It was alright.”

“Brilliant. Excellent feedback. Any notes? Suggestions?”

“I know what I like and don’t like, but I’m no good at fixing. But, you know, it’s alright. Chris will be the one for that job.”

“Chris doesn’t want to read it,” I say, glancing at him for a reaction.

He doesn’t deny this. “I wouldn’t be your editor on a second book anyway,” he says.

“No?”

“It would go back to Bradley. He’s the specialist.”

Unexpectedly, I am disappointed. There is a silence for a minute while we sip our drinks. I am hung-over from a vodka binge last night. Cheryl was out. I watched two DVDs of Arrested Development but I can only remember the first.

Chris looks at his watch. “Anyway, Sid’s the one who insisted it be a one book deal so don’t moan to us.”

“Sorry?”

“We offered a three book deal but…” He notices Sid looking sheepish and stops.

“What…the…fuck?” I say to Sid.

He shrugs. “If the book’s a success we’ll be in the driving seat. We can negotiate a superb contract.”

“And if it’s not?” Sid looks up at the ceiling, frowning, as though he hasn’t thought about it before. “I just…don’t know what to say. In fact, it’s in their interest not to sell too many so they can get another cheap contract and then push for sales.”

“There’s different ways of looking at everything,” Sid says. “You’re a half-empty kind of person.”

“You’re a totally empty person,” I say. “Empty-headed.” Even through my anger I am embarrassed. Then I just feel tired and I can’t wait to get home and go to sleep or maybe have a drink.

Louise Woodward and the Babyshakers

Any celebrity I once possessed at Harper Collins has long since dissipated and the receptionist has fallen back to asking for my name when I approach her desk. It is just an act. Often I only mumble and she still states it clearly over the phone to whoever I am visiting. Perhaps it is a deliberate ploy to maintain the company hierarchy, but if so, how does anyone remember the receptionist’s name?

Pauline and Mavis have broken out their summer dresses and when I see their cotton hems fluttering in the breeze of an electric fan and threatening to billow upwards and reveal their legs I pretend I’m cold and ask for it to be switched off. The PR girls are looking happy today and they comply without comment.

“Here’s the autumn catalogue,” Mavis says, handing me an A4-sized colour magazine.

James Hardy stares out at me with his book The Art of Life and Death. “He beat me to the cover, then?” I ask, smirking to mask my stabbing jealousy.

“Only just,” Pauline says. “But he’d be the lead title of the year. Perhaps of the decade.” She looks away, smiling.

“You’re in love with him!” I say this accusingly but she only shrugs. I flick through page after page of gurning authors and their pretentious books. My pretentious book is not there. My smirk slowly fades until, near the back of the catalogue I see it sandwiched into a sci-fi/fantasy round-up section, and my face is merely a blank.

There is a heavy silence in the room, and finally I am able to look up and face them. “Is it going to be in WH Smith?” I finally ask in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Mavis tells me. She smiles again.

“Why are you two so happy, anyway?”

“We’re naturally this way,” Mavis says. “We know you’re never happy, and we’ve simply decided not to let you bring us down.”

“We feel that’s the best way of dealing with you,” Pauline adds.

Even though I know this is just a technique to stop me getting upset, it still robs me of the energy to raise any anger. “There isn’t even a blurb or a synopsis,” I whine. “It just shows the book. That’s not an advert. That’s just saying the name of a book. I mean, if I said to you, ‘The Wire,’ would you rush out and buy the DVD?”

“Maybe if I saw the cover,” Mavis tries.

“Couldn’t you just move it up the order a little? Maybe give it a quarter page rather than the… I can’t even tell what fraction of a page this is.”

“It’s finished, Christopher. It’s printed and distributed and in our sales reps’ bags. Besides, it’s in the appropriate section. It’s a popular genre and that’s where the relevant people will look first.”

“What about this bloke? He’s not in the fantasy section and he’s got dragons on his cover.”

“That’s an historical study of the Chinese Qing dynasty.”

“Oh. What about this one? This has got half a page.”

“She’s written more than twenty books. She’ll sell at least fifty thousand copies.”

“That’s nothing. Is it?”

“It’s pretty good going,” Pauline assures me. “This is fine for a first time, believe me. The trouble is we have no idea if there’s an audience out there for you. It’s a lottery. You’ve had no previous publishing experience.”

“I had two letters printed in the NME.”

There is a long silence. Eventually, Mavis humours me. “What about?”

“I was trying to stoke up publicity for my band at school.”

“What were you called?”

“Louise Woodward and the Babyshakers.”

“A publicist’s dream.”

“And I got my friend in as the Cretinous Useless Negligible Tosser of the week in the Melody Maker.”

“We’re talking about published fiction that garnered feedback.”

“Someone said something nice about me on Write Words.”

“Yes, for something completely different. You’re an unknown quantity. The best thing we can do is try to book you in for more readings at conventions.”

I gasp in horror and shout “No” before I can stop myself. They stare at me. “The truth is…” I begin, trying to act casual but merely appearing childish. “Well, things didn’t go that well up in Doncaster. I don’t think that public appearances are my forte.”

“On the contrary,” Pauline says, a peppering of sweat budding on her bosom in the hot room. “We’ve heard nothing but good things about your little moment on stage.”

“Who was your spy? Helen Keller?”

“We publicists do speak to one another and we heard a couple of…interesting reports.”

“I don’t think they were that impressed,” I say, confused.

“Maybe not. But you see, at the moment you are completely unknown. Almost. Say the people in the audience heard a dozen speakers that day. They all tend to blend in to one another. But most of that audience will remember you. And by the time they hear about you or the book again, preferably face-to-face with the cover in Borders, a bell will ring. Most of them will say, ‘Oh, he’s that twat who gave that abysmal reading at that convention and then insulted us.’”

“Right.”

“But some of them will be thick enough to have forgotten how they remember you and will simply buy the book because a connection has been made.”

“Hmm.”

“But better than that, some of the audience will tell other people who weren’t there about your performance, and some of them will remember your name, and some of them won’t remember why and will buy the book in Borders.”

“Or WH Smith.”

“Possibly. The more people we trick into remembering you, the wider we cast the net, the more sales. And if those people that buy the book actually like it, then that leads to good word-of-mouth and everyone’s forgotten the spectacle that kicked it off.”

“In fact,” Mavis takes over, “You can even take the performances much further. Have a few drinks before. Kick a few tables over. Let’s get some drama going.”

“So basically, you want to exploit me as a freak show.”

“You’ve got to use what you’ve got,” Pauline says, and I numbly flip open my diary as she starts reading out a list of dates and cities.