Though Pippa resolutely refuses to talk about where she wants to end up—‘outcome goals’, as she calls them—I put it to her that the ultimate accolade for anyone in a band is to have one of your songs playing as background music in
EastEnders
. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says dismissively. ‘Not until they upgrade to a more salubrious setting. Have you seen the hideous wallpaper in most of those houses? I don’t want my songs associated with that.’ That’s me told!
Martha Wyers, 31, author.
Fiction writer Martha Wyers has more awards and accolades to her name than most people twice her age. She won first prize in a children’s short story competition at the age of 11, and has been bagging prizes ever since. How many in total? I ask her, and she looks embarrassed. ‘I don’t know, maybe thirty?’ she says, blushing. These include the prestigious Kaveney Schmidt Award and the Albert Bennett short story prize. Now she’s branched out into full-length fiction, and her first novel,
Ice on the Sun
, was published in hardback last year by Picador, and is now out in paperback. Editor Peter Straus describes the book as ‘A stunning debut, the best novel by a young author that I’ve read in a long while.’ ‘I suppose it’s a literary novel, but I hope it’s readable too,’ Martha says. ‘I was gripped by the story while I was writing it, and I want readers to be gripped too.’ She is keen to talk about the book, and admits she became ’comprehensively obsessed’ with it while writing it. It’s the story of 27-year-old Sidonie Kershaw, who falls insanely in love with the enigmatic Adam Sands at an interview for a job they’re both after (a job Adam eventually gets). Sidonie can’t get him out of her head, even though she doesn’t know him from . . . well, Adam! She pursues him relentlessly, ends up frightening and repelling him, and driving herself into an abyss of despair. Sounds a bit depressing, I dare to suggest. ‘The only depressing books are bad ones,’ says Martha firmly. ‘Look at
American Psycho
—it’s uplifting because it’s art, because it’s so brilliantly written, powerful and memorable. There’s so much pain and horror in the world—emotional, physical, you name it. It’s the writers who don’t tackle these issues that depress me.’
Born and brought up near Winchester, you might say that Martha was born with an entire silver dinner service in her mouth. Her father is an investment banker, and Martha describes her mother as ‘an aristocrat who wouldn’t ever have had to work if she hadn’t wanted to’, though as it happens she always has and she now runs a T’ai Chi school that she set up herself. The family home is an eighteen-bedroom Hampshire mansion. The grounds are regularly used by touring companies for open-air productions of Shakespeare and opera. Martha’s mother is passionate about the arts, and always wanted her only daughter to do something creative. An ex-pupil of Villiers, the exclusive girls’ boarding school in Surrey, she sent Martha there too, in keeping with family tradition. ‘I love Villiers,’ says Martha. ‘If I ever have a daughter, that’s where she’ll go.’ On a novelist’s income? I ask. ‘I’m lucky,’ Martha admits. ‘Money isn’t a problem for me, because of my family. But it annoys me when people assume my life’s always been easy because of this. Financial problems aren’t the only kind. I know other writers who are always flat broke, but they’re happier in themselves than I am.’ Isn’t she happy, then? Most people would be, with a two-book deal from one of the country’s finest publishers and an ecstatically reviewed first novel already out. ‘I worry compulsively about the next book—I still don’t know what it’s going to be about,’ Martha admits. ‘What if it’s no good? I’m scared all I’ll do is write another version of my first book except worse. I could end up being a very public failure by the time I’m thirty-five.’ I ask her about her love life—does she have an Adam Sands equivalent? ‘If you’re asking if I’ve got a boyfriend, the answer’s no,’ she says. ‘But in the past I’ve been through hell as a result of loving a man too much, so in that sense the novel’s autobiographical. See what I mean?’ She smiles. ‘There are some situations where money’s no use whatsoever.’
I have one last question that I’m bursting to put to all of these rising stars, partly inspired by Martha’s closing words, so I round them up for a group session. I ask them what they’d do if they had to choose between professional fame, success, plaudits, fans, applause—all their wildest career dreams come true—but an unfulfilled and unhappy personal life,
or
a personal life full of love and happiness and all things good, but total lack of recognition professionally—a career down the tubes. ‘That’s an infantile question,’ says Pippa. Aidan is shaking his head. ‘You haven’t asked it right,’ he says. ‘It’s not about fame or success.’ ‘Speak for yourself!’ Doohan quips. I ask Aidan if he’d care to rephrase my question. ‘What matters to me is being able to do my work, not how well it does commercially,’ he says. ‘Yes, it’s great if other people appreciate what I do, but all that really matters to me is being able to paint.’ I ask if it matters more than personal happiness. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘If I had to choose, I’d choose my work over anything else. Creative satisfaction, feeling like I’m achieving something substantial with my art—that’s the most important thing, whether the world notices me doing it or not.’ On the other side of the coin, though, we have Kerry, who is laughing uproariously at Aidan’s response. ‘What, so you’d turn down a rolling programme of bliss from dawn till dusk, even if no one took the blindest bit of notice of your paintings? Not me, mate. I’d choose a happy life over my work any day. No offence to your arts supplement, and obviously I’m pleased to be in it, but I’m only a comedian, for f***’s sake. It’s not like my work’s that important—I’m not some brilliant doctor finding a cure for cancer.’ Doohan refuses to choose. ‘I want it all, me,’ he says. ‘I can have it, too, according to the terms of the dilemma you’ve set out for us. If I’m ecstatically happy, that has to mean I’m happy about all aspects of my life, which would have to include my work. Therefore it must be going well. Right?’ He’s a cheeky boy, that Doohan!
Martha is the only one who seems unsure. ‘Work,’ she says eventually. ‘That’s my official answer.’ She won’t say any more. Obviously, I’m intrigued. I’ll certainly be having a read of her novel, as well as immersing myself in the powerful and varied talents of her four fellow fame-seekers, all of whom are sure to become household names in the very near future. Remember, you heard it here first . . .
16
5/3/08
‘It’s a minor detail,’ said DC Chris Gibbs impatiently. He and DC Colin Sellers were inside Ruth Bussey’s lodge house. Kombothekra had told them to have a thorough look round. Neither knew what he was looking for. ‘She’s either fit to split or she’s not—end of story. If she’s got nice legs, nice tits, a nice arse, nice face . . .’
‘I’m not saying it’d be a deal-breaker,’ said Sellers.
‘A hunchback, false teeth and leprosy wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for you. You’d hump anything.’ Gibbs glanced towards the open front door, outside which an unhappy Malcolm Fenton, landlord of Blantyre Lodge, was waiting not so patiently to lock up. Under his breath, Gibbs launched into his favourite Sellers impression: ‘“All right, love, wipe yourself, your taxi’s here; it’s four in the morning, love, pay for yourself . . .” ’
‘If you’re too shy to answer the question, that’s fine.’ Sellers patted him on the back. ‘I understand, mate.’
‘I’ve answered the question. I don’t fucking care! Why don’t you ask Muggins?’
Fenton—or Muggins, as Sellers and Gibbs called him, on account of it being how he most often referred to himself—appeared in the hallway. ‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ he said. ‘Ruth isn’t here and she’s done nothing wrong. If you think I’m going to stand here listening to your foul language while you violate her privacy, you’ve—’
‘Sorry, Mr Fenton,’ said Sellers amiably. ‘I’ll make sure he puts a fiver in the swear-box when we get back to the nick.’
‘You don’t give a fuck what I think,’ Gibbs muttered, once Fenton had withdrawn. ‘You want me to ask you. Go on, then, let’s hear it. What
is
all this shit?’ He picked up one of Ruth Bussey’s wire animals and grimaced at it before putting it down again.
‘I don’t like half-measures,’ said Sellers. ‘Brazilian’s fine, natural and wild’s also good—the wilder the better. Anything in between . . .’
‘What? You’d say no?’
‘I’m just saying, I like the extremes. All or nothing.’
‘Half-measures is fine by me, as long as she’s fit,’ said Gibbs. ‘Anyway, a Brazilian’s
not
nothing—it’s a landing strip. You mean a Hollywood.’
‘A
what
? You don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’
Gibbs shook his head.
‘I’ve got a theory,’ said Sellers. ‘These half-measures women—and that’s
most
women, far as I can tell—they’re only thinking about themselves, how they’ll look in a bikini. They’re not thinking about what men are going to like. I mean, you say you’re not bothered, but in an ideal world . . .’ Sellers tailed off when he looked up from Ruth Bussey’s desk and saw that Gibbs had left the room. He raised his voice. ‘I’m going to start asking around. If it turns out most men agree with me, well, then an important point needs making loud and clear, so that women get the message.’
‘Shut it and come and look at this.’
‘Where are you?’ Sellers went in search of Gibbs. He found him in the bedroom, and was about to make the sort of joke he was known for among his colleagues when he saw the wall. ‘Fuck me stupid,’ he said.
‘She’s obsessed with Charlie,’ said Gibbs, staring at the collection of articles. When he turned round, he saw that Sellers had a smug smile plastered across his face. For a second, Gibbs thought he was about to resume his musings on the subject of female pubic hairstyling.
‘She’s not obsessed, she’s following orders,’ said Sellers. ‘Look.’ He went out into the hall and came back with an open book in one hand and a bookmark in the other. ‘I’m glad I took my time when you and Muggins were trying to chivvy me along. Look at this.’ He handed the book to Gibbs, waited while he read the relevant section.
‘So? If she’s reading this shit, it proves she’s not right in the head. So does that.’ Gibbs nodded at the wall. ‘It comes from a book—so what?’
‘She might not be right in the head, but she’s not a danger to the sarge—that’s all that matters, right? What are you doing?’
Gibbs had his phone clamped to his ear. ‘Ringing Waterhouse. If some freak had pictures of my bird all over her wall, I’d want to know about it.’
‘We’re not supposed to be—’
‘So you keep saying.’ Gibbs turned on him. ‘You and the Snowman. You can be his best fucking frosty friend if you want to, but I’m with Kombothekra on this one. Waterhouse has done nothing—no more than usual anyway.’
‘I’m not saying he has.’
‘Then where’s your loyalty?’
‘It’s not our decision to make, is it? When the Snowman finds out you and Kombothekra have been feeding Waterhouse information behind his back, I’ll still have a job.’ Sellers grabbed Gibbs’ phone out of his hand and held it in the air. ‘You could keep yours too if you don’t do anything stupid.’
‘This is about Stacey, isn’t it? What Charlie said about her at the party—the vibrator and all that.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’
‘Course it has. With you, it comes back to pussy every time. Remember how the Brazilian conversation started? You were speculating about the Snowman’s daughter. How about I tell him that?’
Sellers slumped against the door. He knew when he was beaten.
Gibbs grinned. ‘It’s not a problem—I’m used to it. All you need to do is remember you’ve got no claim to thinking you’re better than anyone else and we’re sweet. Now give me back my fucking phone.’
‘Where is she?’ DS Coral Milward knocked her rings against the underside of the table. ‘I’ve left her two messages. She’s not got back to me.’
‘She mentioned something about an art gallery,’ said Simon. ‘Where’s DC Dunning?’
Milward’s eyes dipped at the mention of his name. ‘He’s not looking round White Cube, that’s for sure.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Why don’t you ask Sergeant Zailer? She’s an art lover, apparently. ’
‘Dunning not into art?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Is it the aftershave?’ Simon asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your antipathy towards Dunning.’
Milward pulled her thick arms out from under the table and folded them. The knocking sound stopped. She was wearing a new shirt since this morning, with pearl cufflinks. ‘So the rumours are true,’ she said. ‘I’d heard that overstepping the mark is your speciality.’
‘I’m on your side, for what it’s worth. You smile more. And stink less.’
‘Don’t fuck me about, Waterhouse. Is your fiancée’s art gallery jaunt this afternoon connected to my case?’
‘You’d have to ask her.’
Milward leaned forward. ‘We know Aidan Seed used to be an artist. He was a bright young thing, had a successful exhibition, then jacked it in. Why? Most people don’t deliberately balls up promising careers. Present company excepted.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Trouble is, I don’t believe you.’
Simon shrugged. ‘Your problem.’
‘Saul Hansard didn’t know either. Him I did believe.’
‘Why would Seed have confided in Hansard?’
Milward let him see that she was debating whether or not to tell him. She made him wait a few seconds for her answer. ‘Seed was working as Hansard’s assistant when he had his one and only exhibition in London. Also when he decided to stop painting and take up framing.’
‘Seed worked for Hansard?’ Simon frowned. ‘Ruth Bussey worked for Hansard before she worked for Seed.’
Milward seemed to be waiting for him to continue.
‘Mary Trelease used to have her work framed by Hansard.’