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.

Geek Bomb part 3

The authors reading before me are all awful and tedious and I find the whole thing embarrassing. Authors should be secretive, shadowy figures, a figment of the reader’s imagination, something otherworldly lurking out of sight. Here they are now on a makeshift stage just metres away from normal people, desperately flogging their work and stripping the process bare of magic and mystery.

Cheryl and Jason come in and sit next to me and I kiss my wife on the lips, not to claim ownership of my property but to taste for cock or spunk. There is only wine.

There are about fifty people in the audience when I am called to the stage, mostly men, mostly in their twenties and thirties with beards. To my annoyance I am nervous.

“Clear History is my first novel and will be released in October,” I tell them, and explain the basic plot. “I’d like to read chapter five to you now. Here, the President is preparing to make a speech.

‘SECRETARY SCOTT stood with his PDA and watched Wilson sitting in the chair. He was covered with a body cloth, while an assistant pressed powder onto his face. Wilson looked into the mirror, watching for any shiny patches the assistant might leave.

“How long do I have?” he asked.

“Just under five minutes, sir,” said Scott.

Wilson sighed. He looked tired, thought Scott. Just slightly, over the last few months, he had begun to show the strain.

“What is the status of Agent Reece?” asked Wilson.

“Unchanged, sir,” Scott told him. “He remains in a vegetative state, but the Strident techs are working on ways to bring him back.”

“And his family? His wife and children?”’

The audience are laughing loudly. I am confused and my anger rises. “Actually, it’s not supposed to be funny,” I tell them, and they quiet down. Flustered, I begin to read again, inadvertently skipping ahead.

‘Wilson stopped in his tracks and turned to face Scott, who was barely able to stop short of colliding with him. Wilson was reddening with anger that he failed to suppress in his tone. “We cannot risk falling further behind!” he snapped. “I will not tolerate it.”

Scott felt his hand rise, and was unable to stop his fingers pushing his glasses up again. He saw it as a submissive gesture, and felt weaker for it. He could understand Wilson’s impatience with the cybernetics. He had always been a pioneer, and Lumecorp, controlling the Central Territory, had always been at least one step ahead of its enemies. Wilson, essentially a peace-keeper when wars almost certainly could have been won, now had confirmed intel that the Northern Alliance had been making great strides in the last few months. Always more aggressive than Lumecorp, the threat, should they become stronger militarily, was potentially devastating.’

They are laughing again, but for some reason my embarrassment turns to amusement and I play along with it, putting on funny voices for the characters and even acting out their gestures. It goes on too long and everyone is bored by the end. I am exhausted and as they clap I flop into the leather chair on the stage, picking up a wireless microphone from a table.

Someone takes a microphone into the audience. A bearded man stands up. “That was extraordinary,” he says.

“Thank you.” They laugh again but it has a nasty, snide edge.

“Yes. How did you get interested in sci-fi?”

“I’m not,” I say without thinking. “I mean, I am, but I’m not a sci-fi nerd or anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” I am sweating and glad that Pauline and Mavis aren’t here. “I wrote a sci-fi book by mistake and now I’m a sci-fi author.”

Another bloke takes the microphone. “So your next book will be within the same genre?”

“I’m glad you’re so confident there will be another book. Can you talk to my publisher?!” No one laughs. “Yes, the next book will be in the same world. That’s how they hook people in and get them to buy the whole series. But you don’t need to know that.”

“Sometimes I feel that series’ can become lazy and repetitive for that reason, though.”

“Look,” I say. “Terry Pratchett’s going mental and when he does you’re going to want a replacement for that Discworld stuff.”

“But Pratchett writes fantasy.”

“Sci-fi, fantasy, same thing,” I say. The audience actually murmurs. “In a good way,” I add.

The compere appears from backstage and adjusts the podium mike. “Thank you to Christopher Hardy,” he says. “I’m sure we all wish him luck with his book.”

I say something but they have already killed my mike. I am urged offstage by the girl with the clipboard.

“They seemed to enjoy it,” I bluff to Cheryl.

She nods, silent, and I can see she is embarrassed by the performance. (I realise later she is angry at the audience’s response. Which is nice).

“Well, there was certainly a lot of laughter,” Jason says. “I didn’t realise it was supposed to be a comedy though.”

“It can be…anything you want,” I shrug. “Once the words have left the writer they are in the readers hands.”

They nod. The room is filling up for Michael Marshall Smith.

“I don’t think I’ll do this again,” I say.

“They don’t deserve it,” Cheryl says, and we go home and we’ll almost certainly never go back to Doncaster.