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Authors: David Solomons
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inability to stop worshipping her own pain.’
‘Worshipping my …’
He closed his eyes, trying to regain control of himself. ‘Please, sit down. Let's talk about the launch.’
‘You know what,’ she said quietly, ‘our deal is one more book and then what's done is done.’
She wanted to turn smartly on her heel, head held high and march from his office. From his life. She needed a good exit, something to show him what she was made of—a full stop at the end of their stupid little relationship, or whatever this was. But her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. And with each step she told herself don't look back. Don't look back at him. Finally, she was outside and she let the tears fall. She made her way quickly across the empty courtyard and back onto the street. With a whir and a click the gates swung closed behind her.
Au revoir
, Tristesse.
CHAPTER 7
‘Only Happy When It Rains’, Garbage, 1995, Mushroom
I F IT HAD BEEN up to Jane she would have cut all ties with Tom and Tristesse, but there was the small matter of her debut novel to promote. As a result the next six weeks were punctuated with a stream of perky communications from Sophie Hamilton Findlay in her capacity as Tristesse Books’ publicity department.
‘I'm pitching you to
Vogue
/
Harpers
/
Stylist
,’ she would announce one day, and follow up two days later with news of a rejection delivered in the same upbeat fashion.
Sophie remained stalwart in the face of endless dismissal, but Jane couldn't help noticing that the scale of her ambition lowered with each round. The glossies gave way to the free sheets. ‘I'm pitching you to the
Glasgow West Gazette
/
The Big Issue
.’
As the weeks wore on, Jane began to worry. Now even worse than the prospect of bad reviews was the distinct possibility of no reviews. It was not so much the sinking of her expectations as their torpedoing.
‘We'll start with some events.’ Sophie's jaunty voice whizzed out of the phone. ‘Nothing glam, I'm afraid. Little bookstores. But we'll grow it.’
‘Does that usually work?’ Jane asked cautiously.
‘It can.’
‘Have you ever known it to work?’
Jane listened as Sophie circled the question like a bear trap. ‘Really, it's all about word of mouth. Nothing beats word of mouth.’
‘But people need to read the book in the first place before they can talk about it, right? You need … mouths.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how do you get to those mouths?’
‘Oh, lots of ways. We have our tricks of the trade. The key is to go where the conversation is happening.’
‘But it isn't happening.’
‘Not yet.’
‘So how do we make it happen?’
There was a pause and then Sophie announced breezily, ‘Word of mouth.’
Jane perched on a wobbly chair tucked away at the rear of the tiny bookshop in a space in the children's section that when she'd arrived earlier that evening was occupied by a playmat and assorted squeaky toys.
She'd pictured her first book signing a thousand times in her mind: a queue of eager readers snaking round theblock, her sitting behind a desk bowing under the weight of books, happily accepting endless, unconditional praise, signing each fresh copy to the accompanying melody of the cash register. Reality was a letdown. Most of her makeshift audience had been lured in by the promise of a free glass of wine, some cheap plonk Tom had ordered for the occasion. She'd sunk two glasses in an attempt to bolster her courage before taking to the stage. Well, playmat.
No one applauded when she finished reading. She'd chosen the chapter in
Happy Ending
in which her protagonist is locked in her bedroom on the twelfth floor of the high flat and can only gaze down at the other children playing outside on the first day of sunshine after a month of rain.
She squinted into the audience. The bookshop owner had helpfully set up a reading lamp. It dazzled her as she looked out and she couldn't see their faces. ‘Audience’ was a bit
‘Worshipping my …’
He closed his eyes, trying to regain control of himself. ‘Please, sit down. Let's talk about the launch.’
‘You know what,’ she said quietly, ‘our deal is one more book and then what's done is done.’
She wanted to turn smartly on her heel, head held high and march from his office. From his life. She needed a good exit, something to show him what she was made of—a full stop at the end of their stupid little relationship, or whatever this was. But her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. And with each step she told herself don't look back. Don't look back at him. Finally, she was outside and she let the tears fall. She made her way quickly across the empty courtyard and back onto the street. With a whir and a click the gates swung closed behind her.
Au revoir
, Tristesse.
CHAPTER 7
‘Only Happy When It Rains’, Garbage, 1995, Mushroom
I F IT HAD BEEN up to Jane she would have cut all ties with Tom and Tristesse, but there was the small matter of her debut novel to promote. As a result the next six weeks were punctuated with a stream of perky communications from Sophie Hamilton Findlay in her capacity as Tristesse Books’ publicity department.
‘I'm pitching you to
Vogue
/
Harpers
/
Stylist
,’ she would announce one day, and follow up two days later with news of a rejection delivered in the same upbeat fashion.
Sophie remained stalwart in the face of endless dismissal, but Jane couldn't help noticing that the scale of her ambition lowered with each round. The glossies gave way to the free sheets. ‘I'm pitching you to the
Glasgow West Gazette
/
The Big Issue
.’
As the weeks wore on, Jane began to worry. Now even worse than the prospect of bad reviews was the distinct possibility of no reviews. It was not so much the sinking of her expectations as their torpedoing.
‘We'll start with some events.’ Sophie's jaunty voice whizzed out of the phone. ‘Nothing glam, I'm afraid. Little bookstores. But we'll grow it.’
‘Does that usually work?’ Jane asked cautiously.
‘It can.’
‘Have you ever known it to work?’
Jane listened as Sophie circled the question like a bear trap. ‘Really, it's all about word of mouth. Nothing beats word of mouth.’
‘But people need to read the book in the first place before they can talk about it, right? You need … mouths.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how do you get to those mouths?’
‘Oh, lots of ways. We have our tricks of the trade. The key is to go where the conversation is happening.’
‘But it isn't happening.’
‘Not yet.’
‘So how do we make it happen?’
There was a pause and then Sophie announced breezily, ‘Word of mouth.’
Jane perched on a wobbly chair tucked away at the rear of the tiny bookshop in a space in the children's section that when she'd arrived earlier that evening was occupied by a playmat and assorted squeaky toys.
She'd pictured her first book signing a thousand times in her mind: a queue of eager readers snaking round theblock, her sitting behind a desk bowing under the weight of books, happily accepting endless, unconditional praise, signing each fresh copy to the accompanying melody of the cash register. Reality was a letdown. Most of her makeshift audience had been lured in by the promise of a free glass of wine, some cheap plonk Tom had ordered for the occasion. She'd sunk two glasses in an attempt to bolster her courage before taking to the stage. Well, playmat.
No one applauded when she finished reading. She'd chosen the chapter in
Happy Ending
in which her protagonist is locked in her bedroom on the twelfth floor of the high flat and can only gaze down at the other children playing outside on the first day of sunshine after a month of rain.
She squinted into the audience. The bookshop owner had helpfully set up a reading lamp. It dazzled her as she looked out and she couldn't see their faces. ‘Audience’ was a bit
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