Geek Bomb part 2

I hate attention. I am uncomfortable with people crawling to me, treating me as though I am better than them, running after me like servants. At least, I imagine I would be if it happened. So I am surprised by my disappointment when I am not met by anyone at the sci-fi convention, and am merely left to wonder through Doncaster Leisure Centre in a bewildered and frustrated state.

I spent the morning and afternoon in the hotel pretending I wasn’t fighting the urge to be sick, as though admitting I was hung-over would confirm in Cheryl’s eyes that last night’s drunken behaviour was indeed as pathetic as we both know it was. At one point I even leapt off the bed and did twenty press-ups, even though alcohol-laced blood flooded into my brain and caused my vision to white out and a thin trail of bile to ooze up my throat. When I finished I disguised my desperate clinging to the wall for support with a leg stretch. At lunch I ordered a dry sandwich rather than the grease-mess I would normally gobble down in a pained frenzy, and left some of it even though my belly was still gurgling for nourishment. (Later I shovelled a family-sized packet of Kettle Chips into my mouth in the tiny hotel hot tub, ignoring the awful shouty kids standing on my legs and splashing chlorine onto my crisps. Then, back on the bed with Cheryl watching music videos with the volume almost all the way down, my chest suddenly began burning up but I didn’t lift my shirt to cool it because somehow I knew that the sight of my fat white hairy stomach would depress me and admit too many truths about everything.)

Now we walk through the convention and I squint pathetically at the surrounding throng. It is as though a geek bomb has exploded. These are people who have become so expertly nerdish they have long since abandoned any pretence of being accepted by normal society and have embraced the world of Geekdom so intensely that they openly, even loudly, discuss their lack of lives and are far happier for doing so.

We walk round the stalls where people are pointlessly selling bootleg tapes of films at the same price legal copies can be purchased. Old horror film stars sit at tables desperately attempting to sell their autographs for five, ten, even twenty pounds. A porn star encourages us to flick through her catalogue of (laminated) nude photographs. Someone has a DVD he claims is packed with clips of Robert DeNiro corpsing. I feel faint, then bent down and re-tie my shoe laces.

Finally I find the girl with the clipboard. She doesn’t recognise me from yesterday. When she finds my name on the list she confirms that I will be reading at 9pm. “Right,” I say. “Where’s the green room?”

“The green room?”

“Yes. Or a dressing room, or just somewhere backstage I can relax and prepare.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. We don’t have anything like that.”

“What, so I’m just supposed to hang around here until my slot? What does Michael Marshall Smith have to say about that?”

“Well, he does have a little room. But at least two of the other readers today don’t. It’s not a personal thing, Mr. Hardy. We only have limited resources.”

“What about when my name is called? I can’t come from front-of-stage. That would look ridiculous. I have to appear from somewhere different from the punters, otherwise it looks as though I’m on the same level as them. I mean, I don’t have any delusions of grandeur but how can they respect me or take me seriously as an author if I’m just the bloke sitting next to them in the audience who suddenly gets up on stage like some kind of Open Mic night.”

“I think you might be over thinking it a little,” she suggests. “Do you know Mr. Marshall Smith?”

“No.”

“Oh. I was going to suggest that you could ask him if you could hide behind the curtain outside his dressing room. Other than that…”

She trails off. I sigh. “Can I get a cup of tea, at least?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God,” I say with heavy sarcasm.

“The café is down the hall.”

“You won’t get it for me?”

“I’m really busy.”

Is that a public cafe?”

“Yes. That’s all we have.”

“I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Your contract said you would be on the premises from 5pm.”

“But there’s nowhere to go!”

“You could watch the other authors reading.”

I wave her away. Suddenly I realise that Cheryl hasn’t been interjecting. I turn and see her hanging up her mobile. “Well, if you’re sorted,” she says, “I’m going to meet Jason for a drink.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t I come?”

“No. No drinking before public appearances. We all remember the pub quiz you hosted…” I don’t and I put my hands over my ears because I don’t want to know. “You can’t keep running from the consequences of your actions,” Cheryl says.

“I can,” I say, and I run through the crowd of Star Wars and heavy metal t-shirts.

Geek Bomb part 1

I arrive with Cheryl at the leisure centre in Doncaster the night before my first convention appearance. As the bored girl with a clipboard searches for my name on her list I try to give her my petrol receipts. “We don’t cover expenses I’m afraid," she says.

I study her. “I get a refund for the hotel room, though, right?” She laughs softly. She thinks I am joking. Cheryl squeezes my arm for support, a gesture I appreciate because I know the money spent has pained her more than I.

She finds my name at least. “Welcome!” she says, smiling suddenly.

“What room am I in?” I ask.

“I’ve no idea. The official hotel is across the motorway there.”

I sigh. “So I have to drive up to the roundabout and cross over?”

“Actually, I don’t think you can get back on the motorway there. You’ll have to go down two junctions. It’ll take about fifteen minutes.”

I nod, impassive. I had not expected these two days to go well.

I check in and cancel the next night’s booking, even though it means I will have to drive back to London at 10pm. We go to the hotel bar to unwind. It is crowded with businessmen and sci-fi geeks. I nod at the fat kids in Star Wars t-shirts. “Look at these cunts,” I say.

“Christopher! These are your fans. Well, future fans. Potential future fans.”

“I’d rather die,” I say.

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

I nod at the businessmen. “Why can’t they be my fans?”

“You hate businessmen too.”

“At least it might mean I was writing something with intelligence.”

“Oh Jesus,” Cheryl says.

“What?”

“I think that’s a guy I knew at university.”

“In Virginia?”

“No. I spent a couple weeks at the UL one semester.” She turns away quickly.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t want to say hello?”

“Not really.”

“Well he’s coming over.”

“Dammit.”

She stays with her back to him and I watch him stumble over, weaving with drink, holding a brown short. I am instantly jealous.

“Cheryl!” he slurs when he stops behind her.

She turns and feigns surprise. “Hello!” she says and they embrace. “Wow, it’s great to see you.”

He holds her and then looks at me. “Who’s this?”

“This is my husband, Christopher.”

We shake hands. “Your wife sucked me off at uni,” he tells me, beaming. My mouth drops open and I say nothing. It is a comment I don’t quite recover from for the rest of the convention.

I turn to Cheryl and she is smiling, embarrassed, and I know it is true.

“Sorry!” he says. “Had a few drinks. Never know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Apparently you’re not the only one,” I would say if I wasn’t stunned.

“Drinks?” he offers. “Small white wine?” he asks Cheryl. She nods.

“Scotch. Double. Ice,” I say.

He claps me on the arm and goes to the bar, landing on it heavily.

Cheryl and I stand in silence. “Do you want to go upstairs?” she asks me after awhile.

I look at the man at the bar. “Is there a minibar?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” I wait for a second. “I thought you were only over here at university for a couple of weeks.”

“Yes. Fifteen days.”

“And in that time you got close enough to someone to suck him off?”

“It’s just a blow job. I didn’t fuck him.”

“What kind of skewed logic is that? Blow jobs are worse.”

“How?”

“It just is. I can’t explain. It’s practically abuse.”

“I don’t see it as a big deal. Sex is a big deal.”

“It is a big deal, trust me.”

She shrugs. “Maybe it’s another British/American thing.”

“Then I wish I’d grown up in America. Christ. British girls do not do that first.”

The man returns with the drinks. I finish mine fairly quickly. They talk for awhile. Then I feel upset enough to humiliate them. “Cheryl,” I say. “You haven’t introduced us. What’s this man’s name?”

I smile as though she is stupid but she answers “Jason” immediately and my smile drops and he shakes my hand again.

“I can tell you some stories,” he says.

“No, you’re alright,” I say. “What are you doing here? Travelling salesman? Driving around with a car boot full of timeshare brochures?”

“Nah mate. I’m here for the convention. The sci-fi industry meet.”

I smile genuinely. “Really? You’re actually here for that?” I laugh. “You’re a nerd linger, are you?”

“No, no. I represent some of the actors here. I’m an agent.”

My smile drops. “Oh. Successful, are you?”

He shrugs. “I’m doing okay. Can’t stand sci-fi myself but it’s big business. Film-wise, anyway. Couple of holiday homes, one abroad. Nice little sports car, model girlfriend. Can’t complain!” he nudges me in the ribs. “What about you two? Not on holiday in Doncaster, are you?”

“No,” Cheryl says. “Christopher has a novel coming out in a few months. A sci-fi novel.” Just a hint of malice in her voice. As though we’re standing talking to a woman I licked out ten years ago.

“Oh, that’s…that’s great,” he says. No, that’s…fantastic. You’re into all that are you? Gorks and giants and laser beams?”

“There are laser beams in the book. But no….giants. One of the characters is quite tall…”

I trail off, and trail to the bar, and trail through quite a few drinks until Cheryl has to put me to bed and in the morning I try not to remember all the things I said and shouted.






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Sid's New Office

Sid, my agent, is having an office warming party in Dagenham. He has promoted it as a ‘Brave move into new territory’ and I go along with that, unwilling to accept what such a fall from Regent Street really means. When I finally negotiate the dual carriageways and find unit 112c in the industrial estate, I discover that I am the only guest except for an elderly woman who is half-drunk and somber and who turns out to be his mother. For some reason I had assumed she was dead. Like mine.

Sid is absurdly upbeat and I think he has had too much Red Bull. He hugs me then sits on the edge of a tatty leather sofa.

“Am I late?” I ask, looking round the empty office.

“People are drifting in and out,” he claims, chewing a cocktail sausage. “You’re the guest of honour, though.”

“That’s…frightening,” I say. He tells me something about his life and I nod and look round at the tiny room and notice the tediously bland paintings on the wall. Already I want to leave and sit in traffic. “Last night I was in an Aberdeen Steakhouse,” he is saying, “And I choked on a hunk of beef. It’s happened before and after a few seconds it usually slides down my throat and I’m just a bit sore for a day or so. I’m just greedy and lazy and can’t be bothered to chew for very long. But this time I realized straight away that I couldn’t breathe at all.”

“Jesus. Who were you with?”

“Oh, I was just by myself.”

“You went to an Aberdeen Steakhouse by yourself?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason. Carry on.”

“Well, the waitress happened to be passing and she looked alarmed and she asked me if I was okay. And even though I was dying I put my thumbs up.”

“Why?”

“Even though I was choking to death I still didn’t want to bother anyone. I didn’t want to cause a fuss. I would rather have died quietly in my booth than have people run around after me. Is that terribly British or is there something really wrong with me?”

”I think there may be other issues at work here. But cats go off and hide when they’re dying because they don’t want anyone to see.”

“Maybe they don’t know anyone can help them,” Sid says.

“Possibly. I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore.” I spread my arms and smile. “Congratulations!” I manage.

“Thank you,” he says, and he almost looks embarrassed. “I’m really happy here.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I can imagine.”

“Dagenham is becoming a real hotbed of the publishing world.”

This time I don’t respond. I crack open a Stella and take a few deep gulps. Sid stands up and does some shadow boxing and then we drink and smile awkwardly.

“Harper wants me to go to a sci-fi convention next week,” I tell him.

“That’s great!” Sid says. “Where?”

“Doncaster.”

“That’s great,” he says again.

“Well…I’m still in denial a little, I think. I’m not sure whether I’m ready to jump in.”

“What’s the problem?”

“You know, I’m just still a little…They want me to do a reading and I don’t know if I can.”

“Why not?”

He looks genuinely confused. “Just…the fact that I’m not comfortable with the sci-fi tag.”

“Really?”

I look at him for a long time. “Are you being serious?”

“I vaguely remember you being a bit of a pain about it, but still?”

“Sid, I can’t believe that you don’t know this about me. I want to be a proper writer.”

“You are!” he says. “A damn good one. Which reminds me, you never sent me the end of the book.”

“What book?”

“Your book. What’s it called?” He clicks his finger.

“You mean my novel?” He nods. “Clear History?”

“Yeah. It cuts off as those two blokes are flying in that spaceship and I never got the end.”

“Sid, what are you telling me?” He shakes his head, unsure. “I sent it to you a year ago. First of all, that is the ending. Second of all, it’s not a spaceship. Thirdly, you thought all this time that you hadn’t read the end of my book and you only bring it up now?”

“Well, there’re a lot of books on my shelf. And truth be told, I’m not into sci-fi either. Really, though. That’s how it ends?” I nod mournfully. “Huh. It could work.”

His mother calls him over then and I notice that she is senile. I wait for other guests to arrive but they don’t and then a train rushes past close enough to rattle the windows.

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.

"You're not crazy..."

I wake up with a start and the doctor and Cheryl are sitting either side of my bed, watching me without concern.

“How are the McCanns doing?” I blurt out.

Cheryl sighs. The doctor is taken aback. “Err…Very well, I think.”

“They did it, you know.”

“Did what?”

“They did it.”

“I’d be careful what you say,” the doctor warned me.

“They did it. They cleared their name.”

“Oh. I thought you were going to say that they murdered little Maddy.”

“No, of course not. Of course not.”

“No. Although I think that they murdered her,” the doctor says.

“Oh. That’s just your opinion, is it?”

“Yes. So that’s fine.”

“Doctor,” Cheryl begins. “I’ve got so much to do. Can we speed this up a little?”

I look at my wife and try to force a tear from one of my eyes. “Darling,” I say. “I know hospitals are boring and depressing but try to have some compassion.”

Cheryl squeezes my hand but her attempt at a smile looks more like a grimace. “I have had so much compassion, Christopher. I’m still trying, but…it’s been eight days now.”

“I had a nervous breakdown,” I say. “I’m sick.”

Cheryl can’t help herself shouting. “You didn’t have a nervous breakdown. You’re just a little stressed for Christ’s sake.” She recovers herself. “Sorry,” she says, but to the doctor, not me.

The doctor coughs. “I think what Mrs. Hardy is saying is that…well, beds in the psychiatric ward, as in any hospital facility, are scarce. We haven’t found any real…scientific evidence of mental unbalance, and perhaps you’re ready to face the world again, with all its trials and tribulations, in order to give someone else a chance at rehabilitation. Someone with more…pressing problems that require our attention.”

I look at him. “You’re saying that you couldn’t find anything wrong with me?”

“We’ve conducted many tests, Mr. Hardy, and as I say, no concrete evidence of psychological problems was detected.”

“A-ha!" I shout gleefully. "Got you!"

“Got me?”

“Some of the questions I deliberately gave crazy answers to,” I say, jabbing a finger in the air. “Anyone paying attention would have noticed that.”

“Perhaps what happened,” Cheryl offers, “is that you’re actually insane but in order to appear insane you inadvertently gave normal answers.”

“Oh God,” I say, suddenly panicked.

“No, no,” the doctor says. “Our tests tell us who’s genuinely disturbed. If someone answers every question with ‘rhubarb’ then the chances are he’s having a joke.”

“Hey, I only used ‘rhubarb’ two or three times,” I say.

“I don’t like to use the word ‘faker’ Mr. Hardy, but… The fact that you were deliberately trying to deceive us would suggest that you have a certain degree of self-awareness and that you’re playing a game.”

“Your hospital admitted me,” I say.

“Yes, I seem to recall you turning up at reception unannounced, demanding to be looked after.”

“Doctor, you placed me on suicide watch.”

“Again, at your insistence, Mr. Hardy. Most of the patients we treat here have severe psychological problems that potentially make them a threat to themselves or others. There’s a big difference between being clinically depressed and a bit fed up.”

“When I was young,” I say, “My family went on holidays to France and my dad used to place me in front of topless girls on the beach so that he could pretend to take a picture of me when in fact he was zooming in on naked women.”

“And you’re telling me this because...?”

“He never told me,” I say, looking downcast. “I looked through the albums and thought I was invisible to cameras for years.”

“Mr. Hardy…”

“My mum died,” I say. “My father left the family. Black Kids failed to crack the top ten.”

“Doctor,” Cheryl whispers. “Be firm.”

The doctor leans forward. “If I prescribe some pills, will you go home?”

“What colour are the pills?”

Annoyance flickers over the doctor’s face for the first time. “Beige.”

“Can I have pink ones?”

He looks at me for a long time. “Deal.” We shake hands. Cheryl lets out a long breath and she and the doctor stand up immediately. An orderly comes in and starts pulling the sheets out from under me.

“By the way,” the doctor calls from the doorway. “I was only joking about the McCanns. They’re clearly innocent and deserve all the money and support they’ve received. I just wanted to make that absolutely clear. Good afternoon.”

The Most Stressful Thing

This is the most stressful thing I have ever done.

I wake up in the middle of the night, hung-over (and probably still drunk, but who can tell when you’re mind is a mess?). I put some jogging trousers and trainers on and slip out of the house clutching a half-bottle of whiskey and a tennis racket. A few cars whiz past on Uxbridge Road and for some reason I am walking with them, sticking my fingers up at them when they beep me before remembering that I am in the wrong. I jog up to Ealing tennis club and easily scale their fence onto the grass courts. There are four balls in my racket bag and I attempt to serve them up the court, howling like a dog. No one comes to help. I miss every ball.

Then I walk for an hour and repeatedly run through the pathetic animal enclosure in Walpole Park. The foxes, already bemused about being caged up when their brethren run free around them in broad daylight, eye me with barely concealed boredom. Only when I grab the fence and snarl at them do they come to life and growl back. Eventually my voice is too croaky to continue and I leave them, running through the park screaming for attention.

In a residential street I try to break into cars but it isn’t as easy as on Grand Theft Auto. The cars are all locked and when I pick up a stone and smash a driver’s window, the keys aren’t in the ignition and I don’t know how to hot wire it. I sit in it for awhile, pretending to drive, but the steering wheel locks and I punch the dashboard a few times until my fist hurts.

Suddenly I come to the conclusion that an arrest would be good for my career. I walk up to houses pissing on their doorsteps, letting out a dribble on each one, but no one is awake. I jump on a bus and don’t pay. I stand right next to the driver and stare at him, issuing threats and ultimatums but he calmly drives on, ignoring me. He stops outside my house and I stand in front of the bus. I get tired first and instead I run to the police station in Acton and bang on the windows, shouting in mock-Arabic. It is closed.

“My novel is shit,” I shout at the only pedestrian I have seen.

“I know,” he replies and then there is nothing else to say.

It is like I always thought; I am having a nervous breakdown but no one has noticed.

I slip back into bed, finally tired. Cheryl stirs. “I can’t do this,” I tell her. “I’m a fraud.”

“Go to sleep,” she says. And I do, and in the morning, there are DVDs to watch and life carries on.

My Offical Author Photograph Session

In order to celebrate the completion of Clear History, Harper Collins has booked me into a studio for my official author photograph session. I stand in the middle of the white room which is unnecessarily huge and evaluate the lighting setup. Then I remember that I am a terrible photographer and look away.

When I finally read Chris’ alterations to the manuscript I was impressed and even a little jealous. His word choice and sentence structuring injected the text with an exhilarating sense of urgency that got me excited reading my own book. I emailed him and suggested he take another pass at it. “Feel free to make as many changes as you like,” I wrote. “You’ve greatly improved chapter twelve but I still think you can make it even better. Perhaps you could expand upon the themes you’ve introduced in chapter twenty-eight to show how certain characters are affected. Also, don’t forget you always wanted to make Agent Beechill’s entrance more heroic.”

When he simply replied – almost immediately – with “I HOPE AND PRAY TO EVERYTHING THAT IS HOLY THAT YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME” I wrote back refusing three of his word corrections that I picked arbitrarily from the text. I also pointed out a spelling mistake. He never got back to me and I discovered shortly afterwards that the spelling was, in fact, correct.

Still, the next day one of the PR crones called me to arrange this photo shoot. I asked them not to attend as I find their presence deeply upsetting. Since then their assistant has been dealing with me.

The photographer is ‘Beat’ Nishikori. The assistant who greets me and leads me to the studio tells me that he is one of the top ‘author portrait artists’ in the business. I ask what specific qualities an author photographer must possess compared to, say, a photographer who takes pictures of anybody else on Earth. She shrugs and says, “I’m still learning.”

Nishikori is a tall Japanese man who is wearing tight black jeans, a frilly white blouse and a pink rose. He barely touches my hand when we meet and calls me ‘Daaaarling.” He may be gay. “Call me Beat, please,” he begs me, but for some reason I call him Nish for the next hour. “You need some makeup!” he cries, pointing at a pretty girl in one corner of the room who waits for me with a small brush.

“I thought we might go for the natural look,” I say.

“You need makeup for a natural look!” he cries. I don’t like exclamation marks so just assume he cries everything from now on.

“I do have a spot,” I say. “Typical of one to come up today.”

He scrutinises me. “I don’t think makeup will cover that completely.”

I cover my chin. “Oh God. How bad is it?”

“It is a big lump.”

“Jesus.”

“The makeup cannot hide the shape. Unless we do latex.” I think he is joking. “I can do a bit of Photoshop, Christopher. It’s OK daaarling.”

The makeup girl – I don’t listen when she tells me her name – coats me with foundation. “I could have been a model,” I tell her.

“Really?” Her disbelief irritates me.

“Someone from Elite said I had an ‘Interesting face.’ She wanted to take a few test photos and I laughed at her. I was twenty-one, I had my whole life ahead of me. I thought I was going to be a famous film director. I could have been rich.”

“Probably not,” she says. Then, backtracking, “Only because it’s such a difficult business. I gave everything I had to modelling but I could never make the breakthrough. I came close…”

“Really?” I ask for revenge, then feel bad almost immediately.

“Still, you’re making something of yourself now, aren’t you?” she says. “A successful author…”

“Yes,” I agree. “Yes I am.” She is still working on my face. “Are you starting again?”

“I need slightly more makeup than I realised,” she tells me.

“Why? I’m only thirty-one.”

“Yes, but you’ve done some damage, haven’t you?”

“Have I?”

“You have a bright red nose and red cheeks from boozing but your eyes really stand out. You look like you’ve fallen asleep in the sun wearing sunglasses.”

We look at each other for a few seconds and I don’t feel bad for insulting her anymore.



I stand awkwardly in front of the camera while Nish coos orders at me, coaxing me to open up in some way I can’t grasp.

“You must relax, Christopher,” he tells me.

“Then stop shouting,” I shout, irritated.

“It is OK that you are not smiling,” he says. “The novel you have written is such a dark, intense work of art that I know it can only have come from a dark, intense person. You fascinate me.” The flash blinds me three times in quick succession.

“Is that was it says on the notes they sent you?” I ask, trying a variety of poses, none of which feel remotely relaxed.

“They sent me the book and I loved it,” he says.

“Yeah, right.”

“It is true. I always flick through the books but I read Clear History in two days.”

When the latest flash dissolves from my vision I look hard into his eyes. He is telling the truth. I call him Beat from that moment on. “Beat, I have my suspicions that my own wife has not read my book.”

“Not everyone can appreciate great art,” he claims.

“Well, thank you.”

“Now Christopher, will you work for me? I am getting the misery and pain loud and clear. Now I want to see some of the bitterness and loathing that will make this photograph sell to those horrible chain stores.”

“But you just made me happy.”

“Damn,” he says, firing off another few shots without looking through the viewfinder. “Quick, think about your mother’s funeral.”

“Well, it wasn’t great, but the Vol-au-vents at the wake were really nice.”

“Okay. Err…soon your wife will want babies and your life will be ruined.”

“Getting there.”

“You have a shift at Bid TV tomorrow.”

“Okay, let’s try now.”

Beat keeps snapping away and I bring everything I can to the event but still he is unsatisfied. “What else can I do to help you?” he asks. “Anything you want, just name it.”

“We’re standing in a cold sterile white studio,” I say. “There’s an unnecessary amount of people standing around.”

“What do you want to do?”

“There’s a little river out there called the Thames. It’s a cold cloudy day. The river is dark and dirty and full of romance. The bridges are old and huge and imposing. A man in a suit with no tie in London in late March leaning on the embankment in black and white while pretty tourists flit by, ignoring him…”

“Sounds perfect,” he screams and then just he and I run outside and create beautiful pictures on the north bank of the Thames, Beat with two cameras and a flash and an imagination. When he stops talking the mood creates itself and silently, eye-fucking the camera, I finally give him what he needs and another slot in the puzzle is filled.