The Circle

This was becoming Thomasine's show, and Blacker smiled, but without real amusement. 'I'll say this. Properly edited, pruned of a few excesses, your poems could do rather well. A tweak here, a spot of fine-tuning there. We'd need to be selective. Not all of them work so well as the best, but neither did Wordsworth's. I would envisage a series of slim volumes on various themes.'

'Suits me,' Thomasine said.

He picked up another script. 'The Snows of Yesteryear'. An extraordinary project, taking a group of moderately well-known people with nothing more in common than their surname, and recounting their lives in detail. I have to say that it gripped me from the beginning. There's a touch of Lytton Strachey about this concept. Yet the author must be excessively modest, because he or she doesn't disclose his or her name.'

Maurice the chair said, 'She's our secretary, Miss Snow.'

'How fitting. I should have guessed.'

Miss Snow hadn't looked up from the minutes she was taking.

'Have you read the Strachey book, Eminent Victorians, Miss Snow?'

She shook her head without raising it.

'Then I can recommend it. He casts his net a little wider than you, but his refusal to be impressed by the famous folk he writes about is worth examining. It is clear that you know your subjects intimately, yet one has to be careful not to turn it into hagiography. Are you familiar with the term?'

A voice — not Miss Snow's — said, 'Lives of the saints.' It was Anton.

'Thank you. Actually I was addressing Miss Snow.'

'She's writing everything down,' Anton said. 'She can't take the minutes and talk to you at the same time.'

'I see. Well, kindly take this down, Miss Snow. With some judicious rewriting, more light and shade, a little irony here and there, I would expect to market this book as a breakthrough in biography, a whole new approach. I can see it getting reviewed in all the upmarket papers.'

She nodded her appreciation.

He reached for another script. He wasn't wasting time. 'Ah. The work of fantasy.'

'Tudor's autobiography?' Thomasine said, and there were more suppressed laughs.

'I think not,' Blacker said. 'This is a major work of the imagination by someone who calls himself Zach.'

The image on the screen jerked.

'That's me,' Zach was heard to say.

'Your real name?'

'Yep.'

'Useful for a fantasy writer. Well, Zach, are you published already?'

'No. This is my first attempt.'

'Congratulations, then. You've produced a work of epic proportions.'

'Too long?'

'No, no. I love it. What an undertaking, and how inventive. You've created your own extraordinary world, and made it real for the reader. Your warrior hero — what is he called?'

'Madrigor.'

'Yes. He's a superb creation. Larger than life, yet with enough of humanity about him to engage our sympathy. His adventures have all the excitement of Sir Walter Scott with the added element of science fiction. Have you read Tolkien?'

'Yes.'

'Like him?'

'He's the king.'

'All I can say is that you could very well become the heir to his millions of readers. I can't remember coming across a first novel of such promise. It may take time, but I have every confidence.'

Thomasine said, 'How will he reach millions of readers if you can't afford to advertise?'

'He'll sell the film rights. This story is so visual, I can picture the scenes already.'

'He'll need an agent if he's getting into film deals.'

'Not necessarily. I can handle that.'

'Don't you approve of agents?'

'Some writers find them helpful, but Zach is unknown. If he sent his script to an agent it would be dumped with hundreds of others on what is unkindly called the slush pile. It's unlikely to be read for months and then given only a cursory look. Let's not forget that some of the biggest bestsellers in history were rejected by agents and publishers.'

'War and Peace,' Tudor said.

'Is that a fact?'

'Probably not, coming from Tudor,' Maurice said. 'He's been known to string us along.'

'Unfair,' Tudor said.

'Come on, sweetie,' Thomasine said. 'All that stuff about being a gigolo. Do you expect us to believe that?'

'It's in my autobiography'

'Wishful thinking.'

'My dear, you didn't know me in my prime. I was only on offer to extremely rich women. Film stars, opera singers, barristers. And they always wanted me back.'

'Bit of a stallion, were you?'

'I find this distasteful,' someone said from the front, probably Jessie, who was published in The Lady.

'Have you read my autobiography, sir?' Tudor asked the publisher.

'I believe I did.' He started sorting through the remaining scripts. 'Remind me of the title.'

''Backflash'. A humorous reference to the famous sketch Francis Bacon did of me in the nude. That's in Chapter Three.'

'Ah.'

'I want the sketch on the front of the book.'

'The jacket.'

'No, the birthday suit.'

'I think we're at cross purposes. Shall we discuss it afterwards?'

'The jacket?'

'The book. The contents of your book.'

'I don't see why,' Tudor said. 'Everyone else has had a public appraisal, so why not me?'

'Being autobiography, it's more personal.'

'I'm no shrinking violet. I wouldn't have written it down if I'd wanted to keep it quiet. This lot have heard the choice bits.'

'Even so, my remarks will be for your ears only.'

There was a shocked silence. Then: You don't like it? What's the problem? The rumpy-pumpy? I never heard of a publisher who shied away from sex.'

'That's not the point at all.'

'Easy, Tudor,' Thomasine said to calm him down.

'Very well, sir,' Tudor said with mock humility. Til wait till the end if that's what you want.'

Undaunted, Blacker turned to another script. 'There's a story here entitled 'Passion Fruit', a romantic novel. May I ask the author to reveal herself? I assume this is a lady, though perhaps I shouldn't.'

Dagmar's hand was raised.

'You are Desiree Eliot?'

There were stifled giggles.

'A pen name,' Dagmar said.

'May I enquire what you are really called?'

'Dagmar Bumstead.'

Two or three people seemed to be having seizures.