Seven
One thing finally goes right. The publishers seem to think my CV is respectable enough, to my astonishment. They’re more interested in my previous experience writing to deadlines than my weak grasp of UK politics. The editor I speak to, Carlos, almost apologetically, explains that the final decision sits with the politician. He gives me a number, saying cryptically, “His bark is worse than his bite.”
Great. Nervously, I pick up the phone and dial the number.
“Yes, what?” a gruff voice loudly barks at me, and I almost drop my mobile.
“Uh, hi … Mr Fenton… I’m Alex Taylor.”
“It’s Sir John Fenton, as a matter of fact. What do you want?”
“I… uh… I saw the ad in the newspaper… for a ghostwriter,” I say.
“Oh, yes? Continue.”
“Well, I, uh, spoke to your publishers, and they, er… gave me your number. I have a fair bit of experience writing for books and magazines.”
Silence on the other end. I press on: “My degree is in… er… in English literature and film studies, from Warwick. I currently write freelance pieces, and I can show you a portfolio if you like.”
Silence. Then, “Hmm. You sound very young. I was expecting someone more experienced.”
I think about the early and unsustained success of Galactic Unicorns . “Er, I’ve had projects in the bestseller lists.” Science fiction, under twelve, but he doesn’t need to know that. “It’d be an honour to use this skill to cover a career I’ve always followed with interest.”
“Oh?” the chill on the other end thaws slightly. “What in particular?”
Damn and fuck. I think of the most politics-ey thing I can say. “Well, your brave legislative programme for a start,” I venture. He was a minister, so he must have had a legislative programme, right?
“Ahh, well. I suppose it’s good to hear I’m not totally forgotten, even now in my dotage.” The temperature is definitely thawing.
“I’m very committed. I’m fascinated by people and their stories, and I’d love to write about you,” I blabber.
“Well…” I can sense him wavering. “I suppose there’s no harm in meeting. You can bring this portfolio of yours. Have you got a pen? I’ll give you my address.”
I dutifully note down the address (he lives in Hampstead!), say my goodbyes, and promise to be at his house at “14:00 hours sharp” the following day.
I can’t help but feel a frisson of excitement as I hang up. Maybe this could be my big break. If he already has a publisher, I could be a published politico! This could be my moment to shine. Not to mention the luxury of living in Hampstead. I can picture myself now, getting inspiration from a wintry, desolate heath, like a slightly more urban Emily Bront?.
Adam interrupts my thoughts, “I’d better come with you tomorrow. Make sure he’s not some sort of psychopathic murderer in case you do end up moving in.”
“What? I don’t think I need a minder in Hampstead. He sounded pretty old, too.”
“That’s just how a psychopath would sound, to set a trap. Some spooky house, massive trees and thick walls in Hampstead. They’d never hear you scream.”
I gulp.
“Besides,” Adam adds cheerfully, “I’ve got the day off tomorrow and fancy an adventure.”