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

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

“What’s his surname?” he asks.

“I… don’t know,” I admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One of the big Oscar winners?”

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

“He asked you to tell me that?”

“No, he wanted it in my blog.”

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

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

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

“Black Kids.”

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

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

“Uh-huh. Pick an Hors d’Oeuvres.”

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

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

“What does that say about me?”

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

“No, I mean, here. This place.”

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

“Maybe.”

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

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

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

“I don’t like fish.”

“Duck then.”

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

“Dream on.”

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

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

“Jesus. Always fussing.”

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

“I don’t know his work.”

He sighs. “Martin Amis, then.”

“Who?”

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

“Well…yeah.”

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

“Stephen King?”

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

“Enlighten me.”

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

“I don’t like fancy food.”

“You want to go to Chinatown?”

“Can’t beat Singapore Noodles.”

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

“Keep the client happy, Chris.”

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