4
The fourth thing.
L H Literary Agency
4-8 Wardour Street
London WiP 3AG
31 March
Dear Ms Hogan
(Or can I call you Gemma? — I feel I know you already!) Thank you so much for your pages, forwarded to me by your friend Susan Looby. My reader and I loved them.
Obviously the pages are a long way from being a book and the format would have to be decided on — memoir style, non-fiction or a novel. However, I would be interested in talking to you. Please get in touch and we can discuss it further.
With best wishes
Jojo Harvey
Can you imagine? It was Saturday evening. It had been a lovely day, dozing, drinking Alka Seltzers and thinking about Owen, until I felt well enough to get up and pop over to my flat — which, incidentally, had started to smell funny - to collect my post, water the cat, look longingly at my own bed etc., when I get this. Even before I opened it, my mouth was as dry as the Gobi; every letter with a London postmark has this effect on me because - fool that I am - I hope that it might be Anton telling me it's all been a terrible mistake, Lily is a balding wolf in hippy-chic clothing and that he wants me back. This envelope had a worse than usual effect because it was postmarked London Wi and I happened to know (I had begged Cody to tell me) that Anton's office was around there.
So I open it up and it's on nice, creamy paper but there aren't enough words on it for it to be a proper letter of prostration from Anton. All the same my eyes rush to the bottom and right enough it's not from Anton, it's from someone called Jojo Harvey and who on earth is she? I swallow several times to re-irrigate my mouth and read the letter but instead of being enlightened I'm even more confused. It must be a mistake, I decide. But… she'd mentioned Susan. By surname.
I decided to ring Susan. It was mid-morning in Seattle and I woke her up, but she insisted she didn't mind and we were so excited at hearing each other's voices that it took some time to get to the purpose of the call.
'Susan, listen, I'm after getting this letter. I opened it because it was addressed to me, but it's something to do with you.'
'Go on.' She sounded intrigued. 'Who's it from?'
'Someone called Jojo Harvey, from a literary agency in London.'
There followed the longest silence. So long I was the first to speak. 'Susan? Are you still there?'
'Ah… yeah.'
'I thought we'd been cut off. Speak to me.'
'Yeah, look. She should have written to me, not you.'
'I'll just send it on to you then.' I was surprised at how defensive she sounded.
After another silence, she spoke quickly, 'Gemma, I've got something to tell you and you're not going to like it, at least not straight away and I'm sorry you had to find out like this.'
They're the worst words in the world — the 'I've got something to tell you' configuration. It's never anything good like, 'You've lost a stone but you don't seem to have noticed and
someone
had to be the one to tell you.' Or, 'An eccentric millionaire has bequeathed you a life-altering sum of money and he just wanted to slip it into your bank account without letting you know, but, as a friend, I felt it was my duty to tell you.' It's always bad news.
My stomach had plunged to the centre of the earth. 'What? Susan, what?'
'You know since I came to Seattle, you've been sending me emails?'
'Yes.'
'And you know that your dad left your mam and you've been making up little stories about them?'
'Yes.'
'Well, look, I just thought they were really funny and I've always thought you'd be a great writer and I know you'd never do anything about it yourself and I didn't really think anything would come of it but,' and suddenly she stopped sounding hunted and said clear as a bell, 'I knew you'd never do it yourself.'
'What wouldn't I do?' But I knew. 'You sent my little stories to this agent woman?'
But this was good, wasn't it? Why did she sound so hunted? Then she said, 'Not just the stories.'
'What else?'
'The emails you've been sending me.'
My memory skittered back over everything I'd sent Susan — Dad leaving Mam, Lily's book coming out, my carry-on with Owen - and the breath left my body. 'Not
… all
the emails?'
'Not all, no not all,' she was racing through the words. 'I left out some.'
'
Some
? Some was nothing like enough.
'I left out all the really bad bits, like how much you hate Lily, and…'
'And… ?' I was desperate.
'And how much you hated Lily's book.'
'And… ?'
'How you feel about Lily.'
'But you already said that. Did you send everything else?'
'Yes.' It was so low it sounded like a crackle of static.
Oh Susan.'
'I'm sorry Gemma honest to God, I thought it was the right thing...'
I began to cry. I should have been furious but I didn't have the strength.
I drove back to Mam's. 'Come on,' she said, handing me a glass of Bailey's. 'We're missing the
Midsomer Murders
.'
'No, I can't.'
I interfaced with my communicator brick, frantic to read back over what I'd sent to Susan and was currently on some stranger's desk in London.
I speed-read through the Sent Items. Omigod, omigod, omigod, it was worse than I remembered. All that private pain about Mam and Dad. Worse still was the mean-spirited stuff that it was OK for my friends to know about, but the thought of someone else knowing about makes me itchy with shame.
5
On Saturday night and all day Sunday, my mobile rang incessantly, as a mortified Susan tried to apologize. I didn't pick up any of her calls; I needed a recovery period.
'I was only trying to help,' she said, several times a message. 'You're a great writer but I knew you'd never do anything about it yourself.'
That's the trouble with Susan. Just because she went to Seattle and followed her bloody dream, she wants everyone else to do it too. In the good old days (last year) she used to sigh, We're going nowhere, Gemma,' and I always said, 'I know. Nice, isn't it?' It was a big enough shock when she did something about her own life but to try to kick-start mine in this way was well out of order.
Going to work on Monday I was afraid I might gawk. Every time I thought of the agent woman reading about, say, my first night with Owen or Mam's fake heart attack, I got a hot flush.
And I realized I should have worked over the weekend, instead of treating myself to a hangover — there were several messages on my voicemail including one from Lesley Lattimore saying:
1) She didn't like any of the three dress designers I'd put her in touch with.
2) What free cosmetics had I bagged so far?
3) Where was her turreted castle?
Of course, I'd bagged no cosmetics — it was kind of hard to persuade companies to shell out shedloads of free stuff for an F-list party that no social pages would touch — and I still hadn't found a turreted castle which was suitable for a party.
Then there were messages from the three dress designers. One called Lesley 'a horrible person'. The second said that Lesley wanted her to make the dress for free in return for publicity. The third called Lesley 'white trash'.
Jayzus
.
I hit the phones in a big, panicky way, putting calls in all over the place - to designers, journalists, cosmetic houses, turreted castles. In the razor-thin sliver of time between me hanging up on one call and beginning another, Cody rang. 'Cody "Kofi Annan" Cooper calling to intercede. Susan says you won't talk to her.'
'No, I won't. This is the worst thing anyone has ever done to me.'
'It is not, you big drama queen. Jesus Christ, you should be gay. Gemma, I'll say one thing to you and I want you to listen carefully: a literary agent is interested in representing you and you
haven't even written a book
. Have you any idea how lucky you are? Thousands of people write books, give up all their free time, break their hearts trying and they still can't get an agent. But one has just landed in your lap.'
I shrugged.
'Did you just shrug?'
'Sometimes you scare me.'
'Girl, it's mutual.'
'What are you talking about?'
'You. The way you never do anything any more.'
'Oi, who's the drama queen now? You
know
how hard I work. My job is so demanding and even if I say so myself, I'm extremely good at it.'
'That's right, you're great at pulling in money for the evil twins so they can buy their farmhouse in Normandy or whatever it is this week. What do you get out of it?'
'I'm on good money and, Cody, don't call them the evil twins, sometimes they listen in on my calls.'
I drove back to Mam's. 'Come on/ she said, handing me a glass of Bailey's. We're missing the
Midsomer Murders
.,'
'No, I can't.'
I interfaced with my communicator brick, frantic to read back over what I'd sent to Susan and was currently on some stranger's desk in London.
I speed-read through the Sent Items. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, it was worse than I remembered. All that private pain about Mam and Dad. Worse still was the mean-spirited stuff that it was OK for my friends to know about, but the thought of anyone else knowing about made me itchy with shame.
'Set up on your own.'
Everyone in the business, it's their
dream
to set up on their own. But you need money and potential clients and F&F have hung me up with a contract which means I couldn't take any existing clients with me. Besides I'd be afraid that F&F would take a contract out on me. 'Maybe some day…'
'In the meantime ring this agent woman. If you've any sense.'
'And what if I get published and the whole world reads about my father deserting my mother?'
'Change the details.'
'
They'll
still know it's them.'
'Look, I don't have the answers. You figure it out.' I remained silent and Cody said, 'Just one more thing. This agent is also Lily's agent.'
'Lily
Wright
?'
'How many other Lilys do we know?'
'Why did Susan pick her?'
'Because she hadn't a clue how to find an agent. This woman was the only one she knew of, so she asked her dad to ask Lily's mammy who Lily's agent was.'
'God Almighty…'
'So ring her.'
'If she wants me badly enough, she'll ring me.'
'She won't. She's very busy and in demand.'
'Whatever.' I wasn't going to ring Jojo Harvey. If this was meant to be it would happen of its own accord.
6
OK, I rang her. I gave it until the following Monday - a full-on, Lesley-Lattimore-filled week — waiting for what was meant to be, to happen and when it didn't, I picked up the phone and rang this Jojo Harvey.
It was Monday morning, I'd spent the weekend criss-crossing Ireland, looking at bloody turreted bloody castles, and I needed
something.
It took a few moments for Jojo to remember who I was but once she did she said, 'Come in and see me.'
'I live in Ireland, it's not that easy.'
She didn't say she would come to Dublin or that she'd pay my airfare to London. She didn't want me that badly - I suspected she'd only taken my call because she thought I was someone else — and that triggered unexpected anxiety.
However, I refused to make a decision to actually go. Again I took the attitude that if it was meant to be, it would happen of its own accord. But to help fate along I tried to get Francis & Frances to send me, by saying loudly outside their office door, 'God, I hate London, I'm so glad I never have to go there for work. And when you think about it, the opportunities are endless, so many British stars want to get married in Ireland, but the thought of being sent to London to pitch to management agencies just makes my heart sink.'
However — and why was I even surprised? — they double-bluffed me and on Wednesday morning came the news that they were sending Andrea. Evil fucks. Clearly they are honoured guests to the dark side, they probably have frequent flyer cards. And I'd been given my message: this wasn't meant to be.
Fuhgedaboudit.
So I rang Cody who asked, 'How's life in the enclosed order?'
'Not bad. We have nice porridge.'
He clicked and I knew he was flicking his eyes skywards.
'Do you need to go to London for anything in the near future?' I asked.
'No, but I hear you do.'
I gave in. 'I suppose. Will you come with me?'
'If it means you'll go and see this agent woman, then yes. When?'
'Some day next week? Wednesday?'
'Fine, I'll have a migraine that day. Now ring Susan.'
FROM:
Gemma [email protected]
SUBJECT: Thank you and sorry
I'm going to see Jojo Harvey on Wednesday and thank you, thank you, thank you for making it happen. You're right, I'd never have done it if it had been left to me. I'm so sorry for not taking your calls, I wasn't trying to be mean, I was just a bit freaked. Cody's coming with me, he's going to have a migraine and I'm going to have period pains. I'll ring you when it's not the middle of the night in Seattle.
Lots and lots and lots and lots of love from your grateful pal.
Gemma
After the night I snuck out on him, Owen never called, which I found really, really funny. Some people might say I'd 'given him what he wanted' so why would he bother with me again. And I'd have to agree that the first time I sleep with a man is a tricky time - I'm braced for the balance of power to change, for him to become remote and distant, and for me to feel as though I've relinquished something. But with Owen — and I don't know why — I didn't give a flying fuck so, cheery as anything, I called.
'Owen, it's Gemma. Let's go out on Friday night.' Like we'd parted on the fondest terms.
'You've a bit of a nerve.'
'I don't usually,' I admitted. 'It's just the effect you have on me. So how about it?'
'Will you be sneaking off home in the middle of the night?'
'Yes, but I have a reason. Meet me and I'll tell you it.'
Of course he couldn't resist that and eight o'clock on Friday night saw me once again stumbling down the mirrored steps of Crash.
'
Deja vu
,' I beamed. 'I like your shirt.' A different one but just as cool.
He wasn't smiling but I kept grinning at him until he gave in and cracked his expression-free face. Then, like he was surprised by what he was doing, he stood up, caught me and kissed me. A very nice kiss, which went on longer than either of us had planned and stopped only when someone called, 'Get a room!'
'So what's your excuse for running out on me in the middle of the night?'
'It's a good one. Buy me a drink and I'll tell you.' I gave it to him chapter and verse, especially how Mam couldn't be left on her own all night or she might fake a heart attack. 'In fairness to her, she's trying very hard to be not so clingy, but we're not out of the woods yet. But now you see that me doing a runner was nothing personal, right?'
'I didn't want you to go.' He managed to sound both sulky and sexy.
And under the circumstances I thought it would be nice to reply, 'And I didn't want to go.'
It was a flirty, touchy-feely night, lots of hand-stroking and meaningful eye-locks and we both got a little bit scuttered. We stayed in Crash until kicking-out time, then on the street we stood very close and he said, 'What now? Somewhere else?'
'Let's go back to your place,' I said, fingering a button on his shirt-front in saucy temptress fashion.
'Are you going to sneak out again in the middle of the night?'
'Yes.'
'Then you can't come back.'
Startled, I looked into his face and saw that he was serious! 'But Owen, that's really stupid.' I'd been looking forward to a ride; I'd got a taste for it now.
'If you can't be bothered to stay for the entire night I don't want you to come at all.'
'But I've told you what's going on! I have to go home to my mother.'
'You're thirty-two,' he cried. 'I could get this sort of grief from a sixteen-year-old.'
'So
get
yourself a sixteen-year-old.'
'OK.'
He turned and walked away from me, very angry and a bit jarred. I stuck my arm up and hailed a taxi. Shaking with rage, I got in. 'Kilmacud.'
Just before the taxi took off, the door was wrenched open and Owen bundled himself in on top of me. 'I'm coming with you.'
'No, you're not'
'Yes, I am.'
'My mother will be thrilled to see you. Not.'
'Stop the car!' Though we were barely moving, we screeched to a kerb-side halt but Owen didn't get out. 'Do we have to go to your mother's house? Can't we go to your apartment?'
'I'd still have to sneak home in the middle of the night.'
'OK, I'll settle for that. Her apartment, Clonskeagh,' he told the driver.
'Excuse me? Who said you could come?' He tried to kiss me and I elbowed him off. But he tried again and he was a very nice kisser so I let him.
Then he slid his palm up my top and caught a nipple between two fingers; an electric shock zipped to my lula and suddenly I was dying for it.
The following day I was pale and subdued. I'd had a drunken row in the street. I'd committed a sex act in a taxi — at least I'd tried but the driver had asked me not to. And I'd slept with a man who called his nether regions 'Uncle Dick and the twins'. What he'd actually said was, 'Uncle Dick and the twins reporting for duty, sir.'
But you know what, the sex was glorious. Fast and fabulous and sweaty and sexy — and plenty of it.
Between one of the bouts he'd mumbled into my hair, 'Sorry for saying the thing about the sixteen-year-old.'
I'd been angry at the time but to hold a grudge you had to care and I didn't.
'You're a stupid fucker but I forgive you,' I said magnanimously.
'I saw Lorna today.'
Who? Oh, his ex-girlfriend. Were you upset?'
'No.'
No, just devastated. And I got what had happened in the street - he hadn't been arguing with me, he was arguing with someone who wasn't there. So what was my excuse?
Sympathetically I stroked his hand until I felt his mickey unfurl and straighten up again, then I turned to him.
'Say it,' I asked.
'Permission to board, skipper.'
He rang me on Sunday afternoon.
'I have tickets for a gig on Tuesday night. Would you like to come?'
'Would I have to stand up?'
'Yes.'
'Then I'll pass. No offence, it's just not me. Bring someone else.'
'OK.' Pause. 'What are you doing now?'
I was working, typing lists for Lesley's bash. 'Nothing,' I said. Something was building in the pit of my stomach.
'Would you like to do something?'
I swallowed. 'Like what?'
What would you like?'
I knew what I'd like and I'd like it very much.
'An hour,' I said. 'That's all I can spare. Meet me at my flat in twenty minutes. Mam!' I yelled, scooping stuff into my bag. 'I have to go out. Work. I'll be a couple of hours at the most.'