People assume authors lead glamorous lives. 99% of the time,
they simply couldn't be more wrong. We sit at computers, surrounded
by increasing levels of filth depending upon how long it's been
since the cleaners visited, pulling up some very dodgy internet
sites that are probably only just legal and occasionally producing
the odd intelligible sentence. (Course, that could just be me.) But
you get the point, not remotely glamorous.
Except, every now and again, we're allowed out. We're told to
scrub up and take the train up. Come to our sixtieth anniversary
party in a deconsecrated church in Mayfair, said the invitation
card from Transworld Publishing. Well, you would, wouldn't you?
Even Lee Child did, flying in from New York for the occasion.
It was very glam and glitzy. I don't need to describe it, just
look at the pics. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed was there, showing off
shiny new wedding ring and honeymoon tan; my lovely agents, Anne
Marie, Rosie and Peter were there; Tom Cain was there, claiming
he's finally read Sacrifice three years after I sent him a
copy; the impossibly glam Mo Hayder was there; so were lots of
other famous people but obviously they didn't come anywhere near
me. I spotted Gilly Cooper, saw Monica Ali's name badge and spent
longer than was strictly dignified trying to catch Mr Child's
eye.
I met Lee Child at Harrogate last year. We had tea (for me) and
apple pie and custard (for him) in a local tea-shop. He impressed
upon me the importance of 100% focus to the writing career.
"Nothing else matters," says Lee.
"How about my seven year old?" I ask. "Won't let me forget I
once missed his sports day to go to a crime writing-event."
"Tell him to get over it."
I duly pass on the message. Son can't decide whether to be
hugely flattered that an immensely famous person knows his name or
incensed that said person should dare to tell him what to do. He
hatches a plan. When he is big enough, he will find Lee Child,
thump him hard on the nose, Reacher style, and say, 'Get over
that!'
I haven't told him that Lee stands 6' 5" and that, given his own
short-arsed genes, my pride and joy is unlikely ever to make the
grade.
Needless
to say, Mr C kept his gaze firmly in the other direction, but I
still had a great time.
Happy birthday Transworld. Here's to the next sixty years. Let's
hope I'm around for a few of them.
(The distinguished silver haired gentleman signing the guest
book with me is literary agent, Peter Buckman, who put me safely on
a train home.)