I fancy the pants off her.
‘Hi, Patricia,’ I say, standing on tiptoe to kiss her cheek. She has an exotic, feral scent. I inhale deeply while I’m up there.
‘Matt. And Anna. How nice.’ Patricia looks down at us and smiles. I stand there and grin stupidly.
Sean walks up to Neville and pumps his hand with gusto. Neville’s distaste is obvious to everyone, except Sean. In Neville’s opinion, agents are the equivalent of amoeba in the literary food chain. Parasitic amoeba, at that. Not that Sean is at the bottom of the food chain, though. No: that place is reserved for me. As an author, I’m little more than a necessary inconvenience to the whole process of publishing books, an unavoidable irritant, like the maiden aunt who must be invited to family get-togethers but who always drinks too much sherry and ends up complaining about her haemorrhoids. That’s me. I am that pissed, pile-plagued spinster.
‘I suppose you all want a drink,’ says Neville sourly.
‘That would be great,’ I say. Anna and Sean nod.
‘Well, there’s the bar,’ replies Neville, pointing.
‘Right,’ I laugh.
I wait.
‘I’ll have a pint, if you’re buying,’ says Neville.
With a disbelieving sigh, I extract my wallet. As I distribute the drinks a few minutes later, I ask, ‘So Neville, who else is coming to this bash, then? Journalists? Booksellers? Any celebs?’
Neville snorts. ‘Do me a fucking favour,’ he says. ‘That lot? Parasites.’
‘Who have you invited?’ asks Sean.
‘Well, all of you, obviously.’ Neville calmly takes a sip of his drink.
‘That’s it?’ I say, dismayed.
‘That’s it.’
‘Oh.’ I pause. ‘Did you bring some books along?’
Neville looks at me oddly. ‘Now why would I want to do that?’
I hesitate. ‘It’s just that, I don’t know, a book launch without any actual books seems a bit peculiar.’
‘Well, I’m very sorry, Matthew,’ says Neville sardonically. ‘No books.’
There is an awkward pause.
‘This is certainly less run-of-the-mill than most book launches I’ve been to,’ remarks Sean doubtfully. ‘I love it, though. It’s gritty. It’s real. It has a certain je ne sais quoi.’
‘It’s a disaster, is what it is,’ I retort.
‘A working launch,’ suggests Anna.
‘Ha ha,’ I say, unamused.
‘We’re all out to launch,’ says Anna.
‘All right, sweetheart,’ I say.
Anna points at Patricia, then at herself. ‘We’re ladies who launch.’
Now Sean decides to join in.
‘There’s no such thing as a free launch,’ he says, looking very pleased with himself.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter.
‘Anyway, cheers,’ says Neville ill-naturedly. ‘Here’s to Licked.’
‘Hear, hear,’ agrees Sean. ‘Congratulations on publication.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I mumble.
‘Yes, well,’ says Neville.
We lapse into silence.
‘So, yeah, anyway,’ says Sean. ‘I just love the book.’
I look at him. He hasn’t read a word of it, I know. ‘Really,’ I say.
To my surprise, Neville agrees. ‘Me too,’ he declares. ‘It’s like, what, Anaïs Nin meets Stanley Gibbons.’
I look at him quizzically. ‘You think?’
‘Definitely.’ Neville takes a swig of beer. ‘Nobody else has published anything like it. Whatever else it may be, it’s different.’
‘Thanks,’ I say uncertainly.
‘And November’s a great time to be published,’ enthuses Sean. ‘The book will be in the shops well in time for Christmas.’
At the thought of Christmas and its attendant retail excesses, Neville shudders visibly. We stand about chatting in a desultory way. Anna listens to the rest of us talk, languidly smoking. In the absence of anything better to do, we all begin drinking too much.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ says Anna after a while. ‘I’m off for a pee.’ As she leaves, I turn my attention to Patricia, who is telling us of the squabbles between three Hollywood starlets, who each want to play the lead in the forthcoming film adaptation of one of her books. The story is met with amusement by Sean and Neville, but I am so overcome with bitterness that I can barely muster a smile. Waves of bilious jealousy froth within me. Hollywood? I don’t even have any bloody books at my book launch.
Some time later, Anna has still not returned. My mind drifts as I begin to wonder what could possibly be taking her so long. Suddenly this afternoon’s worries crowd back in on me again. Why did Anna lie to me about her shopping trip? What is she trying to hide? Before long I can no longer ignore the relentless prod of my suspicions. With a mumbled excuse I break off from the group and go in search of her, fearful that I might be missing something – what, I do not know.
I go to the back of the pub. In front of the women’s toilets, I hover uncertainly, wondering what to do next. I can’t very well just barge in. The thought of Anna’s clandestine trip to the cinema this afternoon needles me insistently. I am paralysed by indecision. My spirits, astonishingly, contrive to dip even lower than they already were.
‘Hello,’ says Patricia into my ear.
I spin round. ‘Patricia,’ I gasp.
Patricia eyes me with interest. ‘What are you doing out here?’ she asks, pointing at the door to the ladies’ lavatory. She smiles. I stare at her big teeth.
‘Ah.’ My mind goes blank. ‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to ask you a question.’
She folds her arms across her chest. ‘Be my guest.’
I stare at her, unable to formulate a thought. Then, inspiration strikes. ‘It’s about your name. That is, your pen name. Your pseudonym. Your, um, nom de plume.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, I’ve always wondered. Of all the thousands of names you could have chosen, why did you go for Candida?’ I swallow.
