Chapter Five
‘What a fun read! Sizzling hot!’ carolled Lexy’s editor Gareth, refolding the pages of Caroline’s Regency bondage gay porn extract and looking at her with twinkling eyes. ‘You’ve got quite the imagination, babes!’
Caroline knew she was unprettily red in the face. She was both excited and mortified by the fact that a gay man had, for the first time ever, read one of these sex scenes – and an editor, to boot! It was embarrassing to acknowledge, but she had no close gay friends, something she attributed to her lack of chicness and sophistication, together with her boring job. Neither gave her opportunities to meet the kind of gay men she would love to befriend.
Caroline wasn’t completely unconfident; she knew that her quick wit was something gay men would appreciate. Lexy and her gay entourage were deliberately, knowingly camp for the TV cameras, but when that scene with the anal bleaching had finished shooting, they had visibly relaxed into a more natural friendship, teasing each other in a way that was more intimate than any coos of mutual support could possibly have been.
Caroline had envied her so much for that. In so many ways, Lexy had exactly what Caroline wanted. It was quite unexpected: before meeting her, Lexy would not even have been on Caroline’s top ten list of women in whose shoes she would love to walk. Yet having seen Lexy’s house, her lifestyle, her genuine beauty, her children – Caroline wasn’t that keen on children, but obviously planned to have them one day – and most of all, her gorgeous and devoted and surprisingly sexy husband . . . yes, it was very hard not to picture herself at the centre of that world, a famous novelist, like Jackie Collins, doing interviews in slinky jersey dresses that showed off her fantastic figure, advised on her hairstyle and make-up by a cabal of witty, wise gay men.
Ones like Gareth. It was the most enormous relief that he had called her sex scene ‘sizzling hot’. Caroline had based it entirely on gay porn and other ‘man on man’ novels, probably, as she had explained to Lexy, written by women like her. She’d never even had anal sex, mortifying though that was to acknowledge.
‘But, that said, obviously this isn’t the kind of thing that’ll work for Lexy,’ Gareth continued, handing the pages to Lexy’s agent Miranda, who had been texting while he read. She put down her phone and started to peruse them in turn. ‘We can’t expect her audience to believe that she’s been secretly writing historical homo smut all this time.’
Lexy sniggered. ‘But Gazza,’ she observed teasingly, ‘my fan base is women who like sexy stuff, plus gay guys – it’s on brand, you know? And the writing’s really classy! Full of big words!’
Gareth shot a speaking glance at Lexy’s agent, a very slim, chic woman dressed entirely in expensive fitted black. Gratifyingly, this was exactly how Caroline had imagined a literary agent to look. Miranda turned to Lexy, leaning a little forward in her seat, and said:
‘Fun idea, Lexy, but we really need to—’
‘I was joking!’ Lexy looked from Gareth to Miranda, flashing her beautiful smile. ‘You lot don’t know me that well, do you? Come on! I want to make a ton of money off these books, yeah? Of course I’m taking the piss!’
Miranda visibly relaxed. Gareth made a show of wiping his brow theatrically.
‘Well, that’s a relief!’ he commented. ‘We were panicking there for a moment! We want you to make a ton of money too. Don’t worry about that, babes. I’m thinking what we talked about in the initial meeting – something closely based on your wild, fabulous existence. You’re having a fantastic life shagging around, you fall pregnant and have to deal with the fact that the father is never going to be around for you and the baby – so relatable! – heartbreak, etc. etc. – you’re a sexy, brave, battling TV star who’s a single mum. Like so many women, just a lot more glam! Then you find true love to cap it all off!’
‘That sounds very commercial,’ Miranda said approvingly.
‘And because we want all the goss on all your guys,’ Gareth said, eyes gleaming, ‘if there’s stuff you could get sued for – drugs, threesomes, perviness – we’ll create fictional characters instead. We can drop clues so the readers will guess who they are, but change some details so the guys can’t start dialling their lawyers. Roman à clef, they call it in France. Nice to see my degree was good for something!’
Lexy nodded. ‘Sounds just right,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And I think Caroline’s the one to do it.’
They were sitting in a small conference room at Bailey and Hart, Lexy’s publishers, which was located in a large 1970s block off Russell Square. It was much more modern than Caroline had imagined; she had had a vague idea that publishers’ offices were located in creaky old townhouses, with stacks of papers piled everywhere. Instead, the decor was the office version of an All Bar One – light wood, bright lighting, glass panels instead of walls.
The staff, however – slim, youngish women in bright fashionable dresses, called Emma and Katie and Lucy and Helena – sounded like they belonged more in a Fulham gastropub full of young men in stripy shirts and bright cord trousers. The ones to whom Caroline had been introduced had all greeted her in friendly tones as clear and bright as the lighting, shaking her hand politely, but she had been very conscious of how dowdy her clothes were compared to theirs.
Lexy had insisted they stop at the first shop they passed that sold handbags, and forced Caroline to buy a basic leather tote into which she dumped the contents of her previous bag; Lexy herself had bundled that up and thrown it into the shop bin with superb contempt. But Caroline’s outfit was still cheap polyester, her accent notably unrefined compared to those of the Emmas and Katies.
Oh well, Caroline had reflected for consolation, a posh girl wouldn’t be able to ghostwrite for Lexy. She couldn’t write how Lexy talks. Plus, Lexy would think she was patronizing her.
Gareth had been initially bemused by Caroline’s presence; Miranda, who strode in shortly afterwards in a whirl of expensive perfume and the glitter of diamond stud earrings, had been more direct, giving Caroline a swift, deeply unimpressed glance and asking Gareth in a tone of barely veiled incredulity if she was his new assistant. Lexy had said cheerfully that no, Caroline had actually been sent to her by Miranda’s agency as a possible ghostwriter, and Miranda’s double take had been so unintentionally comical that everyone had pretended it didn’t happen.
After all, what are writers supposed to look like? Caroline wondered tetchily. You’d think that not being glamorous would be a good thing for a ghostwriter, wouldn’t you? Self-effacing, willing to bury their own personality so that they can tell someone else’s story – surely that sounds like the ideal candidate for the job?
Now, however, as every head in the room turned to look at Caroline, this argument seemed much less convincing. She felt, instead, exactly like what Lexy had said she resembled: someone who worked behind the counter of a bank, her hair the colour of a muddy river, pulled inexpertly back with a cheap plastic clip, her skin muddy too and bumpy with acne and roseacea to boot.
She wanted to sag in her chair to avoid the looks of frank concern on Miranda and Gareth’s faces, the amused grin on Lexy’s. Lexy was obviously not going to say anything else; she was waiting for Caroline to step up, show that she had the nerve to push for what she wanted.
And in desperation, feeling that everyone’s eyes on her might as well have been the barrels of three shotguns, a question popped into Caroline’s head.
What would Lexy do?
This was the first time that, prompted by panic and desperation, Caroline heard those four words challenge her for an answer. It would by no means be the last.
And the answer was simple.
Lexy would not flinch. Lexy would sit up straight in her chair, delighted that the attention was on her. Lexy would smile confidently, set her shoulders back and launch into her pitch to be taken seriously in whatever it was she wanted to achieve. After all, what had she done after her unexpected lightning strike of success on Who’s My Date? She had taken meetings with TV executives and managed to convince them that she could parlay a single TV appearance into a whole series, to be carried entirely by her charm and quick wit.
Lexy couldn’t possibly have known then that she could pull that off; she just assumed that she could. Just as Caroline should assume that she could most definitely write the Romana Claytype book that Gareth wanted to commission. She’d have to look that term up somehow – she had the feeling that roman à clef wasn’t spelled quite like that . . .
‘I’m really excited to tell Lexy’s story,’ Caroline said, happy to hear that her voice was strong and confident. ‘I think we’ll work very well together. It’s been very successful so far – we have a good rapport and she liked my writing style.’
‘Right! You read her bit about me getting my bumhole waxed? It’s really funny!’ Lexy said enthusiastically.
Caroline was sure that Lexy was testing Miranda and Gareth to see if they would flinch at the word ‘bumhole’. If so, she was disappointed. Caroline was later to find out that the pair of them represented and published many reality stars’ biographies and ‘novels’ and that Lexy, compared to some of their other clients, was a model of articulacy and sophistication.
Instead, to Caroline’s absolute delight, both Miranda and Gareth nodded in agreement.
‘Loved the voice,’ Gareth said. ‘Very lively. I’d do some tweaking, sit down and work out the parameters, but overall yes, it was a nice little scene.’
‘It certainly brought the, ah, event to life,’ Miranda added drily.
‘But – and I mean this kindly –’ Gareth smiled at Caroline, who managed a smile back – ‘there’s a reason we don’t commission new fiction authors based on a chapter or two. Agents need to see the whole novel, too.’
Miranda nodded.
‘I was on a panel a while ago with Val McDermid, a very famous crime author,’ she said. ‘During the question part of the session, an aspiring writer asked us what was the key to becoming a professional writer. Before anyone else could answer, Val said: “One word. Finishing.” The rest of us applauded. Do you know how many people, when they hear I’m an agent, tell me they’ve started a book and do I want to read it? I absolutely won’t if it isn’t already finished! Doesn’t mean I’m going to read to the end, but there needs to be an end.’
‘We have a strict timetable on this book,’ Gareth chimed in. ‘Ideally, it’ll come out when the next series of Lexy’s show premieres. And that means it needs to be written in four to five months so it can go into production. It’s a quick turnaround.’
Caroline nodded, trying to look unpanicked by this; actually, she couldn’t talk because of the gigantic lump which had just formed in her throat.
‘Normally we need a manuscript a year in advance,’ Gareth explained, aware that neither Lexy nor Caroline knew how publishing worked. ‘But for celebs with books that are really time-specific, we can do a major rush job. Remember when that cat that did the swimming obstacle course won Britain’s Finest? We got his “autobiography” out in two months. The guy wrote it in a week, start to finish, holed up in his garden shed. His boyfriend brought him food three times a day – he only left that shed to use the loo and sleep. But don’t tell everyone we can do it that fast!’ he added ruefully. ‘I have enough trouble wrangling some of the lazy trollops who write for me to get their books in on time . . .’
‘So you see the issue, Lexy,’ Miranda said, pushing back her sleek blonde-streaked shoulder-length hair with both hands, a gesture that signified seriousness of intent. ‘We just can’t risk someone with no experience taking this on and then not delivering on time. She’s an unproven quantity. I do know it was Campaspe who sent you along to see Lexy,’ she said, turning to Caroline. ‘She found your blog and thought it was nicely done, and Lexy was pressing her to find more ghostwriting candidates. Believe me, I ticked her off for not consulting me first.’
‘Yeah, well, Caroline’s here now and I like her,’ Lexy said, unabashed. ‘Caroline, can you write the book in four to five months?’
I’ll have to quit my job, Caroline thought, petrified. There’s no way they’ll give me a leave of absence. I’m not remotely important enough for that.
But what if I can’t do this book in a few months? I’ll never get my job back if it doesn’t work out! And even if it does, there’s no guarantee I’ll get more work ghostwriting. I could make a success of Lexy’s book and still not have enough to pay the rent. Plus, Lexy told me in Sandbanks that she’s famously tight.
She opened her mouth to admit that she couldn’t manage it; that this would be a huge personal risk for her, biting off much more than she could chew.
What would Lexy do?
‘I can definitely do it!’ Caroline heard herself say, again in the Lexy voice – strong, confident, sure of herself. ‘Though I won’t be locking myself in a garden shed to do it. Apart from anything else, I haven’t got one.’