The Girl at the Bus-Stop, page 5
‘Er, I see,’ replied Becky, ‘can you explain it in a bit more detail.’
‘I just did,’ Jarrold replied, ‘I told you it was simple, but there is one other thing. If the book sells as well as we think it will, Mr Newman will obviously want a sequel out of you. We will need some commitment from you up front to give us an exclusive option on it. Which means that we’ll pay you a retainer and you deliver it to us within say, three months? It may well be longer, but that’s the usual time period for this type of book with Fantasy-Lit.’
‘What if you don’t like the sequel?’ asked Becky.
‘If we don’t take you up on the option then you’re free to sell it elsewhere. Although having said that, we will still maintain the rights to the original book. Any similarity in content would have to be edited-out so we’ll need to check it thoroughly, but hopefully that won’t be necessary. ’
‘Have you read the book yourself, Mr Jarrold?’ asked Rudge.
‘No, heaven forbid,’ he replied with a laugh, ‘I never have time to read a newspaper these days, let alone a book. We have people who do that sort of stuff.’
‘I see,’ replied Rudge, ‘so you have no idea what it’s about?’
‘Absolutely clueless, Mr Rudge, but I do know that it got a few of our marketing people very hot under the collar. As soon as it’s out in the UK they want to push it into Europe and The States too. Now I’ve got to make a couple of calls and shoot off to another appointment, the dentist actually. Feel free to use my office as your own and take your time reading the contract. There are all manner of refreshments just along the corridor, so help yourself.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Jarrold,’ said Becky.
‘Scott, please, Ms Caine. If you fancy a spot of lunch later we’ve got an account with that little Moroccan bistro opposite, Flambé Farouk’s. Don’t worry if you don’t recognise anything on the menu just go for the miscellaneous starters. I’ve no idea what’s in them, but they’re absolutely delicious.’
‘Thank you, Scott.’
‘Not a problem. I would join you myself, but I’m having root-canal treatment so it’ll be hours before the Novacane wears off.’
Jarrold left the office, and Rudge walked over to the window and looked down at the busy street.
‘It’s a different world here isn’t it?’
‘What do you think?’ asked Becky. ‘Option One looks a decent amount of money.’
‘You heard what the man said, Becky. If they’re going to market it all over the place, the royalties option sounds like a better deal, long-term especially.’
‘Well, yes, but just think what you could do with all that money,’ she replied looking starry-eyed. ‘If it was mine I’d be able to buy a car, a brand-new convertible, and go on holiday somewhere exotic. I could even put a deposit down on a decent flat.’
Rudge turned away from the window and looked across at her, his expression sombre.
‘And then what? Drive your fancy soft-top to work every morning to the offices of Schopenhaur & Beauvoir, so you can keep up the repayments on the new flat? I don’t think you’d like that one bit, Becky, I know I wouldn’t.’
‘If you put it like that, no, I don’t suppose I would.’
‘Well, it has to be Option 2.’
‘But if it doesn’t do as well as they anticipate, you’d be throwing that lump-sum away.’
‘Back in the late-1920s there was a Music Hall comedian called Sandy Powell, who was asked by a record company to make some recordings of his comedy routines. This was obviously in the days before television, and often the only way an entertainer could reach a wider audience was to either get on the radio or make records. For his first recording he was offered a lump sum of, I think, around ninety pounds or so, which was a hell of a lot of money back then. Or he could have a royalty of a penny per sale.’
‘Which did he go for?’
‘He was working regularly so he wasn’t hard-up or anything, so he opted for a penny a sale.’
‘And?’
‘He sold thousands, and they were so popular that he went on to make even more recordings and amass a fortune.’
‘Option 2 it is then.’
‘Do you want to borrow my pen?’
Chapter 5– This Year’s Girl
In the days following Becky’s signature on the contract, Rudge took more time off work to travel to London, ‘for more interviews’ as he’d informed his wife. After checking the Net, he employed a firm of accountants with offices close to Central London, instructing them to set up a company in the name of Raspberry Caine Limited. The accountant’s address was to be used as the company’s head office, to avoid any risk of correspondence finding its way through Rudge’s letter-box at his home. After receiving the company’s articles and a registration certificate from Companies House, Rudge set up a business bank account and deposited the two cheques given to Becky by Scott Jarrold.
Rudge had told his wife that he was now a strong candidate for a very good position in London. When she enquired about the salary for the job and whether or not they’d be able to afford satellite television, he plucked a figure of sixty thousand pounds from the air.
‘Of course if I do get the job I’ll have to stay in London during the week.’ he explained, feigning disappointment. ‘They’ll be expecting me to work late quite a bit, otherwise I’d be more than happy to commute on the train every day. They a company apartment which “out-of-towners” like me can use free of charge. It’ll save me a king’s ransom on paying for rail season tickets, which makes perfect sense.’
For the first time in a long time his wife seemed genuinely pleased at his change of fortune. She immediately grabbed the Argos catalogue to read up on fifty-inch widescreen televisions.
One of the editors from Fantasy Lit had been making changes to Rudge’s manuscript, and corresponding with Rudge via the Raspberry Caine e-mail account. Rudge would sit in his shed until the early hours reading the edited chapters, making his own changes and e-mailing them back. This went on for three weeks before both parties were finally happy with the end result, and a polished manuscript was almost ready for publication.
It was another few days before he received the next e-mail in Raspberry Caine’s Inbox. This time it from was Nikki Blandford, from Fantasy Lit’s marketing department. He was so excited he almost ran into the house and kissed his wife, but thought better of it and made himself a mug of tea instead. He disappeared back into his shed and dialled Becky’s number on his mobile.
‘Hello,’ her tired voice replied.
‘It’s me, Rudge, what are you doing a week on Tuesday?’
‘Going to work, why?’
‘Wrong answer, try again,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Go on, I’ll buy it,’ she said, ‘what am I doing a week on Tuesday?’
‘You’re attending the launch party for your debut novel, Disciplinary Attraction,’ he replied, ‘it’s at the Dauphine Hotel near Hyde Park, and they’ve even booked you a room.’
‘Brilliant,’ she said, sounding more awake, ‘but what about you, are you going?’
‘Well it says you can bring a guest so I assumed it would be me, unless you want to take someone else of course. But don’t worry about my accommodation I can make my own arrangements.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but I’ll need something to wear. I haven’t been to any sort of formal do since my Mum and Dad’s wedding, and I was only twelve.’
‘No problem, we can sort all that out beforehand. I’ve decided not to bother with the train this time. I’m going to book us a car and driver instead.’
‘That’ll cost you a few quid.’
‘It will be worth every penny.’
‘Talking of which, am I getting paid for this little jaunt?’
‘Of course, but as it’s an overnight thing I’ll give you a bit more if you like. Is five hundred okay?’
‘For five hundred I might even let you share in my hotel room,’ she replied happily, ‘no, I’m just kidding.’
The Auvergne conference suite at the Dauphine Hotel was filling with well-dressed and polished people from the world of publishing, the media and entertainment. They huddled in small satellite groups chatting excitedly, taking advantage of the free champagne. As fresh people entered the room, group members would glance across briefly in case they recognised anyone before resuming their conversations.
Becky looked stunning in a simple black cocktail dress, a short fitting Brando style patent leather jacket and calf length motorcycle boots. She entered the room shielded behind two waiter and quickly located Scott Jarrold, who immediately offered her a glass of champagne.
She endured forty minutes of being shunted around the room and being introduced to various important executives, fellow authors and nameless partners. She smiled warmly, answered questions politely and nodded her head in all the right places before being moved along to the next batch.
Seeing her being escorted around to meet so many VIPs, it must have dawned on some of the other guests that the petite young woman in the leather jacket and jet black hair must be the subject of the evening’s event. The small groups broke up, and individuals moved towards her to try and get in on the introductions. Some stood at the back of the people surrounding her, joining in the laughter after something bordering on wit was demonstrated. Others muscled their way through to stand directly in front, or at the side of her, desperate to get close.
‘Do you have a partner, Ms Caine?’ asked a rather plump effeminate-sounding man in a gold lamé jacket resembling a boxer’s robe.
‘Not at the moment,’ Becky replied, feeling more than a little bit self-conscious, ‘why, are you offering?’
There were polite titters amongst the guests, and Becky felt a little more relaxed. A rather stern-faced and butch-looking woman with short-cropped red hair wearing a pin-striped man’s suit, pushed her way to the front and put her hand up.
‘If you did have a partner, Ms Caine,’ she asked, looking smug, ‘would it be a man or a woman?’
There was silence, and all eyes were focussed on Becky. She looked around at the faces surrounding her, and waited a few moments before replying.
‘They both have their drawbacks.’ she said, with a teasing smile. ‘With one I’d have to wait hours to get into my own bathroom, and with the other I’d have to deep-clean the bog before I could use it.’
The laughter was considerably louder and more appreciative this time, but the butch-woman wasn’t going to up her interrogation just yet.
‘In your novel, Ms Caine, there are more far more lesbian BDSM encounters than heterosexual ones. So what can we read into that?’
‘You can read into it what you like, it’s a story,’ replied Becky irritably. ‘Many of the female characters show dominant tendencies towards both sexes. But from a purely commercial aspect , if you have beautiful naked women getting their arses whipped by other beautiful women, it’s bound to sell more books.’
‘Do you indulge in BDSM yourself, Ms Caine?’ asked a young man near the back.
Before Becky could reply another question was fired at her from the side.
‘Ms Caine, do you prefer to dish it out or receive it?’
‘What about flap-clamping, Ms Caine?’ said the butch-woman. ‘You describe it so exquisitely that you must have an awful lot of expertise in that area.’
Scott Jarrold came to her rescue by stepping in front of her, and putting his hands in the air to stem the flow of questions.
‘I’m sure Ms Caine will be delighted to answer more questions later on,’ he said assertively, ‘but if I can just interrupt to tell you that the buffet is now open, and we also have the delightful Camden Quintet to keep you entertained with some fine jazz. Thank you.’
As the guests moved towards the huge spread laid out on several tables, Becky slipped out of the room and into the hotel foyer. She spotted Rudge talking to an elderly woman near the reception desk. He was looking very smart indeed, with a new hair style and a designer lounge suit. He smiled at her as she approached.
‘The star of the show,’ he exclaimed, ‘Mrs Foster-Crabtree, allow me to introduce Ms Raspberry Caine.’
Mrs Foster-Crabtree turned to look at Becky and offered her a gnarled hand.
‘Delighted I’m sure, Ms Caine,’ she said, ‘I haven’t read your book, but I’ve been told its jolly good. Is it one of those raunchy bodice-rippers?’
‘Not exactly,’ Becky replied, ‘a bit more contemporary.’
‘I do so like a good nineteenth-century bawdy tale. They usually feature a humble but handsome young farm labourer, who, having fallen hopelessly in love with the squire’s daughter, is warned-off by her powerful father for being too low-class for the likes of her. Later he is horse-whipped by the squire’s henchmen, and handed over to The Press Gang. He works his way up through the ranks in the Royal Navy becoming a captain, and a hero of The Battle of Trafalgar, returning home five years later with wealth and status by the bucket load. In his absence, the love of his life has been forcibly married to Jasper Thorneycroft, the ne’er-do-well son of a wealthy industrialist. He’s a gambler, a womaniser and an all-round blackguard who treats his new bride appallingly, raping and beating her on a regular basis’
‘Blimey, you should have a go at writing novels yourself, Mrs Foster-Crabtree’ said Becky, sounding impressed.
‘Then our hero comes to her aid,’ the old lady continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘and beats ten bells of crap out of the evil Jasper, who then hires some thugs to do away with our man. The plan backfires and Jasper is brought to book, but a last minute plea from our hero saves him from the hangman’s noose to face transportation to The Colonies instead. He drowns whilst trying to escape from the ship, and his young widow is now free to marry the love of her life.
‘We really should be taking notes,’ suggested Rudge.
‘Their first embrace is followed by heavy snogging and the ripping-off of clothing. Naked, they finally get down to business and in the throes of passion she screams like a Banshee as he hits the right spot. After a prolonged bout of pure unadulterated lust, they lie exhausted in each other’s arms, and swear their undying love for each other. The squire welcomes him into the family, and after the grand wedding and all that bollocks, they live happily ever after in wealth and contentment.’
‘Very good, Mrs Foster-Crabtree,’ said Rudge, applauding softly. ‘The way you told that story, well, it was almost like we were there.’
‘Nonsense,’ she scoffed, ‘they’re all written to the same basic formula, that’s why people like them. It’s like a tried and tested recipe with just the right ingredients of injustice, physical abuse, nudity, sex and violence all mixed together and cooked to perfection so we’ll always keep coming back for more.’
‘I’ll see if I can get a copy of my book for you.’ said Becky. ‘I can’t promise you those specific ingredients, but I’ll sign it for you if you like.’
‘Oh, would you my dear?’ she said with a smile. ‘I’d be so grateful. My collection of signed first editions on E-Bay is the only thing that keeps the wolf from the door these days. Just put “to a very dear friend” rather than my name, and your signature underneath of course.’
After finding a copy of the book for her, Rudge made their excuses and they moved away and found two comfy armchairs tucked away from view and ordered coffee.
‘How’s is going so far?’ he asked. ‘I hope it’s not been too traumatic for you. I heard you standing your corner in there just now, and my word, Becky, you certainly know how to handle yourself.’
‘Well I just said what I thought, really, and I had to put that ginger dyke in her place.’
‘That was Kat Katkins,’ said Rudge, ‘she’s a feminist novelist who writes post-Armageddon type futuristic novels about women dominating the world. I’ve seen her photograph many times glaring at me from the backs of her novels in the charity shop, so I recognised her straightaway.’
‘She was a bit scary, but apart from that it’s been a bit wierd. I don’t know who any these people are, but they just come up and kiss me on both cheeks like I’m supposed to know them or something.’
‘It’s your book launch, so they want everyone else here to think you’re a dear friend,’ explained Rudge. ‘If you’re flavour-of-the-month they want to be seen in your company, and don’t want to miss out on getting up-close-and-personal with a rising star.’
‘Rising star, me, do me a favour? When they start gabbling on about writing, I can’t understand half of what they’re talking about.’
