‘Yeah?’
‘This is Linda Gillingham-Bowl, the agent, you sent me your opening chapter?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I love it and would like to talk to you about the manuscript.’
Brant thought, There is no manuscript, you got all there is, said:
‘Terrific’
‘Would Browns in Covent Garden be suitable, say this evening at 6.30?’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll leave your name with the doorman.’
‘No need.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Lady there isn’t a club in London I can’t get into.’
She gave a laugh of delicious fright, said:
‘Oh you sound so like your writing, I’m very excited about this.’
Brant had to know, asked:
Your name, you made it up, am I right?’
She laughed again, said:
‘Oh you are a card.’
Card. He’d been called all sorts of names and few of them flattering but a ‘card,’ no this was a first, he said:
‘See you anon.’
Click.
Crew had disappeared and Brant had to make a decision, fame or villainy? He considered and went with fame, got in his car, checked his watch, figured he’d have time to get home, spruce up, hit Covent Garden.
Back at his place, he selected a bespoke suit (muted navy), white shirt (Armani), police federation tie (stolen), and brown shoes by Loake (impressive). Splashed on some cologne, Tommy Hilfiger, that he’d liberated from a pimp, and poured a small brandy, toasted himself in a full-length mirror.
‘You writers, you just kill me.’
Called a cab as he figured he’d be putting away a fair amount of booze and the driver said:
‘Nice suit.’
Brant agreed and said:
‘Out of your league, pal.’
The driver thought ‘cop’ and ‘pig’ and was silent for the rest of the trip.
At Browns, Brant smiled at the doorman, said:
‘I’m expected.’
The guy recognized the heat though not usually so well dressed, stood aside, said:
‘Have a pleasant evening, sir.’
Brant decided this writing lark was paying dividends already. The lobby was as he’d hoped, full of old furniture, and he moved to the lounge where old people sat in older chairs, the smell of money underwriting all. A woman came towards him, and his spirits sank, she was in her fifties and how the hell could that be. She’d had a young voice on the phone. What kind of shit was that to pull? Dressed in an expensive suit, permed hair, and fuck it, goddam pearls. She gave a glorious smile, asked:
‘Sergeant Brant?’
Her hand outstretched, he reluctantly took it, said:
‘Yeah.’
He sounded as pissed off as he was. In addition to selling the book, which he hadn’t written, he was also expecting to get a leg over. She was delighted with his surliness, said:
‘You’re even better than I’d hoped.’
And, still holding his hand, she led him to some leather armchairs, sat him down, asked:
‘What would you like to drink?’
A waiter had materialized quietly, stood patiently.
‘Large scotch.’
The waiter seemed pleased at the rudeness, as if it was what he understood. The woman said:
You know what, I think I’ll have the same.’
She had finally released his hand but now looked for it again as she said:
‘I’m Linda.’
His last hope faded, the chance that maybe she was an associate and the real deal would show later. Brant studied her and was not encouraged. He’d poled some old broads but not this one, no way. Her face was like parchment and she’d had some plastic surgery, bad surgery, it gave her that ricktus smile. He said:
‘You sound younger on the phone.’
Needling her. Didn’t work, she said:
‘Why, thank you, young man. You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?’
Yeah.
The drinks came and he could only pray she wouldn’t say; ‘Bottoms up.’
She said:
‘Bottoms up.’
He didn’t answer, just sank the scotch. She settled herself, letting her skirt hike up, his stomach heaved and she said:
‘I don’t usually meet new clients myself, but your writing has such an immediacy, is so fresh that I had to meet you.’
She then rattled on about her A-list writers, which would have been impressive if Brant had ever heard of any of them. The waiter arrived with another drink, and she looked a tiny bit better to Brant. She asked:
‘I must know, who are your influences?’
‘My what?’
Oh, she adored him. He was so barbarian, so real, she said:
‘Who do you read? What writers have made the most impact on you?’
‘There’s only one. Though when I went to Australia, I read Bill Bryson.’
She thrilled:
‘Lovely man, Bill. Not as caustic as Paul.’
Brant ignored that, said:
‘Ed McBain.’
She waited, expecting a full explanation, but none came so she decided to get down to business, began:
‘Crime fiction is selling very well and the fact you’re a policeman, we should be able to market you without any trouble. When might I see the full manuscript?’
Brant sank the remains of his drink, definitely felt much better, said:
‘When do I see the money?’
She gave another full laugh, said:
‘I must say your directness is so refreshing. After I see the full work I’ll be able to pitch it to a top publisher, and I’m certain we’ll get a healthy advance.’
Brant was hoping to steer her away from the manuscript and asked:
‘No cash up front?’
She went into a long and detailed talk on how publishing worked and half-way through, Brant interrupted her, asked:
‘Why would I need you?’
She launched into the merits of having representation, and Brant let her wind down.
Said:
‘Sounds like money for old rope to me.’
Her laugh had lost a lot of its merriment, and she reached in her bag, produced a document, said:
‘This is the type of contract I’ll be proposing. This is of course only a rough estimation but perhaps you’d take
