CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two Meetings
TUESDAY, 15 JULY 1997
Soho and the South Bank
‘So. The bad news is, they’re cancelling Game On.’
‘They are? Really?’
‘Yes, they are.’
‘Right. Okay. Right. Did they give a reason why?’
‘No, Dexy, they just don’t feel they’ve cracked a way of conveying the piquant romance of computer gaming to a late-night TV audience. The channel thinks that they haven’t got the ingredients quite right, so they’re cancelling the show.’
‘I see.’
‘ . . . starting again with a different presenter.’
‘And a different name?’
‘No, they’re still calling it Game On.’
‘Right. So – so it’s still the same show then.’
‘They’re making a lot of significant changes.’
‘But it’s still called Game On?’
‘Yes.’
‘Same set, same format and everything.’
‘Broadly speaking.’
‘But with a different presenter.’
‘Yes. A different presenter.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know. Not you though.’
‘They didn’t say who?’
‘They said younger. Someone younger, they were going younger. That’s all I know.’
‘So . . . in other words, I have been sacked.’
‘Well, I suppose another way of looking at it is that, yes, in this instance, they’ve decided to go in a different direction. A direction that’s away from you.’
‘Okay. Okay. So – what’s the good news?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, you said “the bad news is they’re cancelling the show”. What’s the good news?’
‘That’s it. That’s all. That’s all the news I have.’
At that precise same moment, barely two miles away across the Thames, Emma Morley stands in an ascending lift with her old friend Stephanie Shaw.
‘The main thing is, and I can’t say this enough – don’t be intimidated.’
‘Why would I be intimidated?’
‘She’s a legend, Em, in publishing. She’s notorious.’
‘Notorious? For what?’
‘For being a . . . big personality,’ and even though they are the only people in the lift, Stephanie Shaw drops her voice into a whisper. ‘She’s a wonderful editor, she’s just a little . . . eccentric that’s all.’
They ride the next twenty storeys in silence. Beside her Stephanie Shaw stands smart, petite in a crisp white shirt – no, not a shirt, a blouse – tight black pencil skirt, a neat little bob, years away from the sullen Goth who sat next to her in tutorials all that time ago, and Emma is surprised to find herself intimidated by her old acquaintance; her professional demeanour, her no-nonsense manner. Stephanie Shaw has probably sacked people. She probably says things like ‘photocopy this for me!’ If Emma did the same at school they’d laugh in her face. In the lift, hands clasped in front of her, Emma has a sudden urge to giggle. It’s like they’re playing at a game called ‘Offices’.
The lift door slides open onto the thirtieth floor, a vast open-plan area, its high smoked-glass windows looking out across the Thames and Lambeth. When Emma had first come to London she had written hopeful, ill-informed letters to publishers and imagined the envelopes being sliced open with ivory paper knives in cluttered, shabby Georgian houses by ageing secretaries in half-moon glasses. But this is sleek and light and youthful, the very model of the modern media workplace. The only thing that reassures her are the stacks of books that litter the floor and tables, teetering piles of the things dumped seemingly at random. Stephanie strides and Emma follows and around the office faces pop up from behind walls of books and peer at the new arrival as she struggles to remove her jacket and walk at the same time.
‘Now, I can’t guarantee that she’ll have read it all, or read it at all in fact, but she’s asked to see you, which is great, Em, really great.’
‘I appreciate this so much, Stephanie.’
‘Trust me, Em, the writing’s really good. If it wasn’t I wouldn’t have given it to her. It’s not in my interest to give her rubbish to read.’
It was a school story, a romance really, for older kids, set in a comp in Leeds. A sort of real-life, gritty Mallory Towers, based around a school production of Oliver! and told from the point of view of Julie Criscoll, the mouthy, irresponsible girl playing the Artful Dodger. There were illustrations too, scratchy doodles and caricatures and sarcastic speech bubbles like you might find in a teenage girl’s diary, all jumbled in with the text.
She had sent out the first twenty thousand words and waited patiently until she had received a rejection letter from every single publisher; a complete set. Not for us, sorry not to be more helpful, hope you have better luck elsewhere they said, and the only encouraging thing about all those rejections was their vagueness; clearly the manuscript wasn’t getting read much, just declined with a standard letter. Of all the things she had written and abandoned, this was the first which, after reading, she hadn’t wanted to hurl across the room. She knew it was good. Clearly she would have to resort to nepotism.
Despite various influential contacts from college, she had taken a private vow never to resort to asking favours; tugging at the elbow of her more successful contemporaries was too much like asking a friend for money. But she had filled a loose-leaf binder with rejection letters now, and as her mother was fond of reminding her, she wasn’t getting any younger. One lunch break, she had found a quiet classroom, taken a deep breath and made a phone-call to Stephanie Shaw. It was the first time they had spoken in three years, but at least they actually liked each other and after some pleasant catching up, she came out with it: Would she read something? This thing I’ve written. Some chapters and an outline for a silly book for teenagers. It’s about a school musical.
And now here she is, actually meeting a publisher, a real-life publisher. She feels shaky from too much coffee, sick with anxiety, her febrile state not helped by the fact that she has been forced to bunk off school herself. Today is a vital staff meeting, the last before the holidays, and like an errant pupil she had woken that morning, held her nose and phoned the secretary, croaking something about gastric flu. The secretary’s disbelief was audible down the phone-line. She will be in trouble with Mr Godalming too. Phil will be furious.
No time to worry about that now because they are at the corner office, a glass cube of prime commercial space in which she can see a reedy female figure with her back to Emma, and beyond that a startling panorama from St Paul’s down to Parliament.
Stephanie indicates a low chair by the door.
‘So. Wait there. Come and see me afterwards. Tell me how it went. And remember – don’t be scared . . .’
‘Did they give a reason? For dumping me?’
‘Not really.’