Jay.
Where were u Dad? We were supposed 2 have dinner, right?
Oh God, he’d completely forgotten. And why? Because his new reordered life had been fucked up by Ron Latham.
Silla selected one of the sheaf of papers and held it out to him.
‘Contract. In less than two days, what I’d normally have to wait two months for.’
He took it from her.
She stabbed a finger at the pages he was holding.
‘Sixty thousand on signature, sixty thousand on delivery and sixty on publication. And I’m trying to push them into some kind of cut of foreign rights. They think they can sell this worldwide.’
Mabbut’s head ached and his mouth had gone dry. On his contracts ‘Sixty thousand’ usually meant the number of words.
‘What’s the catch?’
She shrugged and pushed back a lock of hair.
‘Must be delivered in six months max, direct interview material from Melville himself, and quite a tough little rider about publisher’s approval. But you’re new and Latham’s paying you well. You’d expect them to protect themselves.’
‘Protect me. Tell them we need more time. Tell them six months is impossible.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Silla, drily.
‘I’ll need to check this, Silla. I need to check it carefully.’
‘Since when did you check a contract?’
This hurt. It had been so long since there’d been a contract worth him checking. Silla softened.
‘I’ve been over it three times this morning, dear boy.’
He dropped the papers back on the table.
‘Silla, aren’t you the weeniest, teeniest bit suspicious of all this? Does it not strike you as odd that all my previous contracts have taken weeks to finalise, and suddenly along comes the biggest one ever and they want it sorted out in twenty-four hours. I mean, this just doesn’t happen.’
Silla took off her reading glasses, rubbed her eyes, and slowly shook her head from side to side. She looked tired. Mabbut had the distinct feeling that she too might have been up all night, albeit for different reasons.
‘I’ve never had a fight with a client for getting them too much money, Keith. This just doesn’t happen either.’
‘It’s a perfectly natural question. Why am I suddenly worth all this?’
‘OK. If it makes you feel better, it’s not you who are worth all this, it’s the book. Latham has decided that this is what he wants. He wants the Melville story. He is convinced it could be a big earner. He also knows that Melville is pathologically opposed to having a book written about him – which incidentally adds more than a touch of spice to the project. So in order to get this book, he has to play a different game. He has to stalk his prey.’
‘You’re talking Ronspeak.’
Silla held up her hands.
‘Dear boy, hear me out,’ she said with an edge.
A ginger cat sidled into the kitchen and stared malevolently at Mabbut.
‘That means no press releases, no fanfares, and no juicy rumours about some big shot signing up with Urgent to tell the Melville tale. Ron knows that for this to work, his tactics have to be completely the reverse.’
She tapped the papers on the table.
‘And I supply him with the magic ingredient . . .’
‘Hair dye?’
‘The best author we can find with no established record of success.’
Mabbut threw back his head and laughed.
‘That’s good, Silla. I should put that on my business cards. “ Keith Mabbut. Author. No established record of success ”.’
Silla stood up. She ruffled her hair and flicked on the kettle behind her.
‘It could be worse, Keith. Crap but successful. That’s a much longer list.’
Mabbut let out a deep sigh.
‘It’s unorthodox, dear boy, and I know that beneath that prickly radical exterior lurks a tight-arsed Yorkshire conservative. But believe me. For once, this is good .’
The kettle began to hum. Mabbut turned away, but there was no escape. Even the cat was staring at him expectantly.
‘What is this, Silla? The moment of truth?’
Silla
Where were u Dad? We were supposed 2 have dinner, right?
Oh God, he’d completely forgotten. And why? Because his new reordered life had been fucked up by Ron Latham.
Silla selected one of the sheaf of papers and held it out to him.
‘Contract. In less than two days, what I’d normally have to wait two months for.’
He took it from her.
She stabbed a finger at the pages he was holding.
‘Sixty thousand on signature, sixty thousand on delivery and sixty on publication. And I’m trying to push them into some kind of cut of foreign rights. They think they can sell this worldwide.’
Mabbut’s head ached and his mouth had gone dry. On his contracts ‘Sixty thousand’ usually meant the number of words.
‘What’s the catch?’
She shrugged and pushed back a lock of hair.
‘Must be delivered in six months max, direct interview material from Melville himself, and quite a tough little rider about publisher’s approval. But you’re new and Latham’s paying you well. You’d expect them to protect themselves.’
‘Protect me. Tell them we need more time. Tell them six months is impossible.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Silla, drily.
‘I’ll need to check this, Silla. I need to check it carefully.’
‘Since when did you check a contract?’
This hurt. It had been so long since there’d been a contract worth him checking. Silla softened.
‘I’ve been over it three times this morning, dear boy.’
He dropped the papers back on the table.
‘Silla, aren’t you the weeniest, teeniest bit suspicious of all this? Does it not strike you as odd that all my previous contracts have taken weeks to finalise, and suddenly along comes the biggest one ever and they want it sorted out in twenty-four hours. I mean, this just doesn’t happen.’
Silla took off her reading glasses, rubbed her eyes, and slowly shook her head from side to side. She looked tired. Mabbut had the distinct feeling that she too might have been up all night, albeit for different reasons.
‘I’ve never had a fight with a client for getting them too much money, Keith. This just doesn’t happen either.’
‘It’s a perfectly natural question. Why am I suddenly worth all this?’
‘OK. If it makes you feel better, it’s not you who are worth all this, it’s the book. Latham has decided that this is what he wants. He wants the Melville story. He is convinced it could be a big earner. He also knows that Melville is pathologically opposed to having a book written about him – which incidentally adds more than a touch of spice to the project. So in order to get this book, he has to play a different game. He has to stalk his prey.’
‘You’re talking Ronspeak.’
Silla held up her hands.
‘Dear boy, hear me out,’ she said with an edge.
A ginger cat sidled into the kitchen and stared malevolently at Mabbut.
‘That means no press releases, no fanfares, and no juicy rumours about some big shot signing up with Urgent to tell the Melville tale. Ron knows that for this to work, his tactics have to be completely the reverse.’
She tapped the papers on the table.
‘And I supply him with the magic ingredient . . .’
‘Hair dye?’
‘The best author we can find with no established record of success.’
Mabbut threw back his head and laughed.
‘That’s good, Silla. I should put that on my business cards. “ Keith Mabbut. Author. No established record of success ”.’
Silla stood up. She ruffled her hair and flicked on the kettle behind her.
‘It could be worse, Keith. Crap but successful. That’s a much longer list.’
Mabbut let out a deep sigh.
‘It’s unorthodox, dear boy, and I know that beneath that prickly radical exterior lurks a tight-arsed Yorkshire conservative. But believe me. For once, this is good .’
The kettle began to hum. Mabbut turned away, but there was no escape. Even the cat was staring at him expectantly.
‘What is this, Silla? The moment of truth?’
Silla
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