soliciting advice on their own projects or sharing stories about the first time they chortled their way through
The Pickwick Papers
or wept at
Bleak House
. God bless them for their interest because Jonathan Torres has had nothing to say about the publication of this fabulous project that he so loved until I run out of patience and send him an email asking how he feels it has been received. He takes three days to answer with two words, “Good response,” the terseness of which makes me suspect the opposite is true. There is no word from Stanek either. Typically, dear Frank fires me off a congratulatory missive the first Saturday morning, but I am feeling decidedly unloved at
The Telegram
.
But that’s not what hurts. We still have the paper delivered but Al shuns it and always reads the news on his tablet.
The Telegram
, however, has decided to run the serial only in print—this may be an exceedingly clever bit of marketing, or not, we will find out soon enough. I showed Al the first instalment—“Oh, Staplehurst. Very smart,” he said—and I assume he has read the next two. I pick the paper up off the porch every day, weekdays and weekends, and leave it on the kitchen table when I’m finished reading. But so far he has said nothing more. It’s mid-February, and I’m growing increasingly nervous. I want him to like it; I know he thinks I should be husbanding my strength, babying myself, but I need to work and want him to see that, to see the old me, the clever one who could match him at his own game.
And now finally, as the fourth instalment appears, he is visibly reading. Ostentatiously reading, sitting in the middle of the kitchen with a cold cup of coffee, frowning at the paper and rustling it occasionally as he does so.
“I always thought that story was greatly overplayed.”
“Overplayed? There was practically a conspiracy to keep the affair secret until the 1930s. Don’t sully the name…”
“Yes, but recently it’s been so overdone. So he had a mistress. Lots of men did.”
“And still do,” I say, before remembering I’m not supposed to do that.
“Hey, we agreed…”
The phone rings, interrupting our conversation. Marriage, in my experience, is full of conversations you never manage to finish. It is the lovely Jonathan on the line. He sounds panicked.
“Is this just going to be about this Nelly person?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Did you get my email?”
“I haven’t got to my desk yet.”
“Don’t you have a BlackBerry?” He sounds as contemptuous as my daughters, continually petitioning for a smartphone.
“I’m thinking about going Samsung,” I lie.
“Anyway, I sent you an email. I thought the serial was supposed to be about Dickens. Is this Nelly person his mistress or something?”
“Yes, his mistress. I did tell you Dickens was not the chief protagonist.”
“Yes, but I told the publisher it was going to be about Dickens and he isn’t sure about this direction. We hoped after all that stuff about the train crash you would move on to another topic. Follow the people he rescued or something. He thinks what you are doing is unfair…”
“Unfair to Dickens?”
“Yeah. Like you’re slandering the man when he can’t fight back.”
“I think the legacy of anybody who wrote
A Christmas Carol
can look after itself.”
“But you’re making out like he’s some pedophile or something.”
“He was forty-five. She was eighteen. That’s a fact.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to emphasize it.”
“You read it and edited it. Why didn’t you raise these concerns earlier this week?”
“Well…” He clears his throat and attempts a decisive note. “You are going to need to tone it down for next week. We’ll have to talk about a new direction. You’ll need to come into the office.”
“The direction will be what I decide it to be. Flip me Stanek’s email address and I’ll deal with him.”
“I don’t know. I’m the editor on the project…”
The Pickwick Papers
or wept at
Bleak House
. God bless them for their interest because Jonathan Torres has had nothing to say about the publication of this fabulous project that he so loved until I run out of patience and send him an email asking how he feels it has been received. He takes three days to answer with two words, “Good response,” the terseness of which makes me suspect the opposite is true. There is no word from Stanek either. Typically, dear Frank fires me off a congratulatory missive the first Saturday morning, but I am feeling decidedly unloved at
The Telegram
.
But that’s not what hurts. We still have the paper delivered but Al shuns it and always reads the news on his tablet.
The Telegram
, however, has decided to run the serial only in print—this may be an exceedingly clever bit of marketing, or not, we will find out soon enough. I showed Al the first instalment—“Oh, Staplehurst. Very smart,” he said—and I assume he has read the next two. I pick the paper up off the porch every day, weekdays and weekends, and leave it on the kitchen table when I’m finished reading. But so far he has said nothing more. It’s mid-February, and I’m growing increasingly nervous. I want him to like it; I know he thinks I should be husbanding my strength, babying myself, but I need to work and want him to see that, to see the old me, the clever one who could match him at his own game.
And now finally, as the fourth instalment appears, he is visibly reading. Ostentatiously reading, sitting in the middle of the kitchen with a cold cup of coffee, frowning at the paper and rustling it occasionally as he does so.
“I always thought that story was greatly overplayed.”
“Overplayed? There was practically a conspiracy to keep the affair secret until the 1930s. Don’t sully the name…”
“Yes, but recently it’s been so overdone. So he had a mistress. Lots of men did.”
“And still do,” I say, before remembering I’m not supposed to do that.
“Hey, we agreed…”
The phone rings, interrupting our conversation. Marriage, in my experience, is full of conversations you never manage to finish. It is the lovely Jonathan on the line. He sounds panicked.
“Is this just going to be about this Nelly person?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Did you get my email?”
“I haven’t got to my desk yet.”
“Don’t you have a BlackBerry?” He sounds as contemptuous as my daughters, continually petitioning for a smartphone.
“I’m thinking about going Samsung,” I lie.
“Anyway, I sent you an email. I thought the serial was supposed to be about Dickens. Is this Nelly person his mistress or something?”
“Yes, his mistress. I did tell you Dickens was not the chief protagonist.”
“Yes, but I told the publisher it was going to be about Dickens and he isn’t sure about this direction. We hoped after all that stuff about the train crash you would move on to another topic. Follow the people he rescued or something. He thinks what you are doing is unfair…”
“Unfair to Dickens?”
“Yeah. Like you’re slandering the man when he can’t fight back.”
“I think the legacy of anybody who wrote
A Christmas Carol
can look after itself.”
“But you’re making out like he’s some pedophile or something.”
“He was forty-five. She was eighteen. That’s a fact.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to emphasize it.”
“You read it and edited it. Why didn’t you raise these concerns earlier this week?”
“Well…” He clears his throat and attempts a decisive note. “You are going to need to tone it down for next week. We’ll have to talk about a new direction. You’ll need to come into the office.”
“The direction will be what I decide it to be. Flip me Stanek’s email address and I’ll deal with him.”
“I don’t know. I’m the editor on the project…”
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