Debutante

Pauline and Mavis, the Harper Collins PR girls assigned to my book, have chosen a party at Home House to introduce me to the publishing world. Their assistant, Lindsey, has been on the phone to me every day, and her excitement, unexpectedly, has rubbed off on me.

When I arrive at Portman Square, the black cabs and private cars are queuing to stop outside the velvet ropes. The passengers will only get out when their car is directly in front of the club steps and they will wait minutes to avoid walking twenty yards from further down the road. Suddenly I feel even more self-conscious than I was on the tube, sitting amongst the Saturday night indie kids and Goths in my wedding suit, complete with silver tie. I didn’t want to hire a tux.

The doorman looks at my ticket, then at me with a look that suggests we both know I’m a chancer. He gives the ticket back to me and steps aside with a wry smile. I thank him with indecent sincerity and finger the knot of my tie as I climb the steps where another bouncer opens a door for me. In my confusion, I pull my wallet out to tip him, then I pretend to put something in it and put it back in my pocket.

It is dark inside and suddenly I wish that I hadn’t told Cheryl that, despite my invitation clearly stating ‘Christopher Hardy + partner,’ that partners weren’t invited. I had imagined Californication-style adventures but I always forget that I am shy and boring and unpleasant, and therefore not casually prone to Californication-style adventures.

I think the party is a book launch for one of Harper Collins’ more successful authors, but as I take no interest in other authors or books, I found the information imparted to me by Lindsey and the invitation itself confusing.

I spot Pauline in a low-cut black dress that repulses me in a way that the artist in me finds tantalising. How can one woman stir my senses to such a degree? I cough politely and interrupt her conversation with a geriatric couple. When she turns to face me there is nowhere to rest my eyes that doesn’t hurt them. She does a double take, then a triple take. “Christopher? What are you doing here?”

I smile awkwardly. “It’s my coming out party.” She looks at me strangely, then notices the invitation still gripped in my hand. She takes it and actually reads my name out loud. “Lindsey is an idiot,” she tells me.

“I know. But specifically, what’s the problem?”

“This was meant for James Hardy, Harper’s new protégé. This was his chance to meet some of the most influential figures in the British literary world.”

I flush in the dark club. “Well, now it’s my chance to, like, do all that.”

Pauline is panicking, and pulls a mobile phone out of her clutch bag. “No offence, Christopher, but this isn’t really your market. James has written one of the books of the decade – I’m not kidding – and we need to start getting the word out.”

I scratch my head. “I’m trying not to take offence, but, just so I know, why exactly isn’t this my market? I mean, I’ve written a good novel, right?”

“Yes, of course, but...” She shakes her phone. “Damn it. I swear these things have something built into them to self-destruct after a year. Look, James’ book is a contemporary work of realistic fiction that will speak to a whole generation of hip young things and have reverberations way beyond that. We’re hoping for big sales in the US market.”

She calls a number and holds the phone to her ear. “Hip young things?” I ask, mockingly. “Sorry to break it to you, but this party looks like a hearing aid convention. Or a Stannah Stair lift appreciation club annual event.” The old couple were still standing by us, listening. I point at the woman. “Except you, love. You look great.”

Pauline leans into me and I shudder as her breath tickles my ear. “These are the people that can make or break his career.”

She runs away, then, gabbling to someone at the other end of her phone line.

“Really?” I say to myself. “What do you do?” I ask the old man.

“We’re retired,” he says.

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m the author’s brother.”

I tut and wave them away. Instinct draws me to a bar in a nearby room. Even the barman is wearing a tux. He looks at me, bored. “Free?” I ask him. He nods. “Make me a cocktail. Your choice.”

“What kind of cocktail?”

“Alcoholic.”

“Yes, but what kinds of alcohol?”

“Any kind. Honestly, pick them at random if you want. Just put a lot in.”

Reluctantly, he turns and busies himself with the bottles. Pauline finds me. She’s holding her phone by her side. “Well, James is in Edinburgh.”

“Tell him he’s not missing much.”

She ignores me. “Lisa Herling is going to be so pissed off.”

“Not if you just use me instead. I’m here and I’m eager.”

“Oh, Christopher. You’re putting me in a very difficult position.”

“I could be at home watching Curb Your Enthusiasm. I came because I was invited. Lindsey’s the one who fucked up.”

“Lindsey needn’t show up for work on Monday. I’m really sorry for her mistake, but would you mind awfully going home?”

“Can’t I just stay for a bit? I want to schmooze.”

“I don’t think schmoozing is your forte.”

“I can learn.”

She sighs. “Maybe just for a bit. But be good.”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” she says. The barman slides a huge pink cocktail over the bar and it slips perfectly into my open hand. She looks at it. “Jesus. Leave that here.”

I gulp down half of it. It is revolting. I gag, then recover and catch up to Pauline on a staircase. “I think there’re some NME writers up here,” she tells me, hurrying.

“Pauline!” someone shouts, a middle-aged man with a rubbish moustache.

She turns and they exchange heartfelt greetings. I stand and mug until my presence becomes so excruciating that Pauline is forced to introduce us. “Christopher, this is Sebastian Grant.”

“Really?” I say. “Sebastian Grant.” He nods as if to say, ‘Can you believe your luck?’ “And what do you do?”

His smile fades. “I’m a critic at the Literary Review.”

“Wow, that’s really cool,” I say, genuinely impressed. His smile returns. “I’m an author.”

“One of Pauline’s bright new things, eh?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, and we both turn to Pauline but she looks noncommittal, embarrassed even, and it makes me feel very small. Even so, I push on. “Perhaps she’ll be able to sweet talk you into a review in our industry’s bible,” I say, guessing.

“Maybe, maybe,” Sebastian plays along. “What kind of work do you do?”

“It’s sci-fi.”

“Oh.” His smile fades again, this time permanently. “I see.”

Pauline makes an effort. “Science fiction does receive some attention from the Lit Review.”

“I think there’s a chap that deals with that sort of thing. Strange lad.”

“Is he here tonight?”

“Hardly. I’m sure he’s at home playing on his computer.”

Pauline laughs too loudly. Someone grabs her, demanding her attention and she trots back down the stairs with the briefest of farewells. Sebastian follows her.

I make it to the top of the stairs. Most of the rooms are closed for refurbishment but there is what used to be a small smoking room where the cool crowd are assembled. I recognise a few of the NME writers from the indie circuit hanging out of a window smoking roll-ups. One of them told me them once told me that he’d married too young. But on nights out he’d always drive and he’d take his wedding ring off in the car. He’d tape it to the top of the gear stick so that no matter how drunk he got he’d always be reminded to put it back on before he got home to his wife. I told him that he should just get a divorce. I can’t see from here whether he is wearing the ring or not, but seeing as this is a night out, if he wasn’t then it wouldn’t mean anything anyway.

I start to approach them but then the prospect of the inevitable arguments about the appalling bands they pretend to like to sell newspapers depresses me and I float back down the stairs thinking ‘network, network.’

I grab a beer from the barman, ignoring the ridiculous cocktail still standing on the bar. The beer is just something to hang onto as I make the rounds; tonight is not the night to get drunk. Involuntarily I flash back to the night I got wasted in Battersea and then used my freelance pass to get into the QVC offices after-hours and I went around the desks of people I didn’t know with a pen and some Post-It notes and stuck ‘PIG’ over hundreds of photographs of their wives and daughters. That is the kind of night I should avoid.

I needn’t worry because I only last another few minutes. I walk around for awhile and there is no one to talk to. Finally two snooty women grab me at the foot of the stairs. They are laughing and are halfway through an ironic conversation about celebrity. “You’re young,” one of them observed.

“Compared to what?” I ask, looking around at the ancient crowd.

“What do you think of the Beckhams?”

“Not much,” I say.

“Who’s your favourite celebrity couple?”

“The McCanns,” I say.

They look, at me, a little shocked. “What do you do?” the other woman asks.

“I write novels.”

“What kind?”

“Sci-fi,” I say loudly. They actually turn their noses up at me and I smile and finish my beer and walk down the steps towards the tube, loosening my tie and trying to decide whether I want to go to Sci-fi conventions or do nothing and sell ten copies of the book and work in shopping telly for the rest of my life.