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.