Went to Paris this week. Sacrifice had made it through to the
final three of the Prix Du Polar (European) for best detective
fiction book published during 2008 in France. The winner was to be
announced on 2 Feb at the Fleche D'or, one of Paris's trendiest
nightspots.
Himself came with me (well someone had to carry the luggage and
make Gallic grunting noises at the French people). It was his first
time on one of these jaunts, and he exactly confirmed my own
opinion of them several hours in with the slightly bemused comment:
"It's like being in another life!"
And this is the really odd thing about being an author. For 50
weeks of the year, they who must be obeyed (editors) keep us locked
in a garret, chained to a PC, allowed out once daily to walk the
dog because it gets the ideas flowing. We become strange, twitching
recluses. Then, in promotion season, we're expected to cast off the
sackcloth and perform. We have to become glamorous, eloquent,
witty, at ease with perfect strangers. We have to be able to take
to the stage in front of multitudes and not dribble incoherently on
the red carpet.
In short, we have to become complete imposters.
In return, we get treated as minor celebrities. Cars meet us at
airports, receptions are held in our honour, journalists care about
our opinions, champagne is opened, we are looked after and fussed
over in the way I fuss over my child.
Now, I'm old enough and self aware enough (I hope) to see this
for what it is: a pleasant diversion from the grunt of real life.
But, I think, if all this had happened to me 20 years ago, I might
have started taking it seriously. I might have believed it to be my
due. And I'm not sure what sort of person I'd have
become.
A few months ago, one of my foreign publicists was telling me,
in a just-between-us-girls sort of way, about one of her other
authors (household name thriller writer) who is just plain mean.
And I sat there, thoroughly enjoying the gossip and thinking, you
sweet girl, it's your fault. You treat us like we're so special -
sooner or later, we're going to start to believe it.
The Paris trip was wackier than most. Fleuve Noir, my lovely
French publishers, went to a great deal of trouble to make us
welcome and it was great to meet Deborah Druba, my French editor at
last. Very sweet lady who, surprisingly, turns out to be
German.
The award ceremony took the form of a mock trial, with a prosecutor
in full dress robes, a handsome French actor to read extracts and a
real lawyer for each of the authors to accompany them on stage and
plead their case.
French lawyers are excitable beasts, I discovered, dwelling at
great length on the blood, the violence, the gore and the
sex. Philippe, my lawyer, entertained everyone by acting out
the murder scene from Sacrifice, stressing the intriguing mystery
of the story and concluding by promising the assembled masses that
Madame Bolton would reveal everything, absolutely everything, for
the cover price of 20 euros.
Thank God they still have the net book agreement in France!
I didn't win Prix du Polar. I was pipped at the post by Saskia
Noort of the Netherlands. Well done, Saskia, and
congratulations also, to the charming Gilles Legardinier, also of
Fleuve Noir, who won the French language prize and who has been in
touch a couple of times since. Hi there Gilles - let's hope
L'Exil des anges is published in English soon, then we can all
enjoy what I'm told is a completely fabulous thriller.