my work,” he said chattily.
“You have?” I said, surveying the once-formal living room. The floorboards were bare. All the furniture was covered in paint-smeared sheets and there were tins of paint everywhere.
“Yes. Farzad release not happening. Five years’ work down the drain. Failed at my life. Failed at my relationships. Failed as a man and a person. But at least I can paint.”
He whipped the sheet off a giant canvas and beamed at me expectantly.
It was absolutely terrible. It looked like the sort of thing you’d buy in Woolworth’s or from the railings round Hyde Park. There was some sort of sunset and a man galloping through the surf on a horse, a suit of armour abandoned on the beach.
“What do you think?”
I was rescued by my cellphone ringing. I looked down— DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER —and clicked it off quickly.
“Yes, I suppose that’s Cleaver, isn’t it? Every time I try to do something good, to stick at life, he pops up and ruins it. Honesty, work, trying to do the decent thing—all pointless, isn’t it? Charm, and celebrity, that’s all it’s about. Is he looking after you?”
“No!”
“So he’s not supporting you? Is it money you want?”
He went to a jar and starting pulling out £20 notes. “Here, take it, plenty. Plenty money. Take all you want. Much good it’s ever done me.”
“I don’t want your money! I’m not some gold-digging single mother coming round to get cash from you. How dare you?” I started heading for the door. “And, for your information, I’m not with Daniel Cleaver.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m doing this on my own.”
—
6.15 p.m. My flat. Gaah! Just looked at Daniel’s text.
DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER
My darling, darling, darling, etc., etc. I got your text. Delighted to help, etc. Working today but will call you later. Watch
Arts Next Week Tonight
at 6 p.m. Dx
Honestly. Am furious. There is actually a baby involved in this. They did actually both have sex with me and neither of them had a condom. They don’t have to both disappear up their own arses.
6.16 p.m. Fumbled grumpily with the TV remotes and eventually found
Arts Next Week Tonight
in the nick of time. There was a studio “hello” shot of Daniel. He looked raddled, not his usual suave, glowing self, but nevertheless smug and optimistic.
“And now,” said the presenter, “former publishing executive turned travel show presenter turned arts show presenter and a consistent womanizer throughout. Poacher turned gamekeeper—and I mean poacher in the
broadest
sense…”
There was stock footage of Daniel with various women, and then a cutaway of Daniel in the studio chair looking, now, completely furious.
“Daniel Cleaver has come out with his attempt at a ‘serious novel’:
The Poetics of Time.
Tom O’Shea! Bill Sharp! Novelists yourselves, and, of course, distinguished critics: Quick thoughts, what do you make of it?”
“This is the single biggest pile of stinking unreadable shit I’ve ever had the misfortune to plough through,” said Tom O’Shea.
“Bill?”
The two critics were seated beside the presenter, looking very concerned.
“It’s neurybathic, neretic, aureate, platitudinous, egregious, insensate, macaronic…”
“Could you translate, Bill?” said the presenter.
“Total unreadable toss,” said Bill Sharp.
“Well, let’s hear a little bit and decide for ourselves, shall we?” said the presenter.
There was a clip of Daniel in front of a bookshelf, reading earnestly from
The Poetics of Time:
“The winds shrieked the devil’s shroud as the birds cawed beneath Veronica’s splayed legs. We gorged, raw. Her eyes were all big.”
There were snorts of laughter from the studio. The show cut to Tom O’Shea and Bill Sharp, helpless with mirth in the studio, and Daniel squirming between them and the presenter.
—
6.30 p.m. OMG. There is the sound of a key in the lock. Maybe burglars?
“Coo-ey!” My mother. I forgot I gave
“You have?” I said, surveying the once-formal living room. The floorboards were bare. All the furniture was covered in paint-smeared sheets and there were tins of paint everywhere.
“Yes. Farzad release not happening. Five years’ work down the drain. Failed at my life. Failed at my relationships. Failed as a man and a person. But at least I can paint.”
He whipped the sheet off a giant canvas and beamed at me expectantly.
It was absolutely terrible. It looked like the sort of thing you’d buy in Woolworth’s or from the railings round Hyde Park. There was some sort of sunset and a man galloping through the surf on a horse, a suit of armour abandoned on the beach.
“What do you think?”
I was rescued by my cellphone ringing. I looked down— DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER —and clicked it off quickly.
“Yes, I suppose that’s Cleaver, isn’t it? Every time I try to do something good, to stick at life, he pops up and ruins it. Honesty, work, trying to do the decent thing—all pointless, isn’t it? Charm, and celebrity, that’s all it’s about. Is he looking after you?”
“No!”
“So he’s not supporting you? Is it money you want?”
He went to a jar and starting pulling out £20 notes. “Here, take it, plenty. Plenty money. Take all you want. Much good it’s ever done me.”
“I don’t want your money! I’m not some gold-digging single mother coming round to get cash from you. How dare you?” I started heading for the door. “And, for your information, I’m not with Daniel Cleaver.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m doing this on my own.”
—
6.15 p.m. My flat. Gaah! Just looked at Daniel’s text.
DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER
My darling, darling, darling, etc., etc. I got your text. Delighted to help, etc. Working today but will call you later. Watch
Arts Next Week Tonight
at 6 p.m. Dx
Honestly. Am furious. There is actually a baby involved in this. They did actually both have sex with me and neither of them had a condom. They don’t have to both disappear up their own arses.
6.16 p.m. Fumbled grumpily with the TV remotes and eventually found
Arts Next Week Tonight
in the nick of time. There was a studio “hello” shot of Daniel. He looked raddled, not his usual suave, glowing self, but nevertheless smug and optimistic.
“And now,” said the presenter, “former publishing executive turned travel show presenter turned arts show presenter and a consistent womanizer throughout. Poacher turned gamekeeper—and I mean poacher in the
broadest
sense…”
There was stock footage of Daniel with various women, and then a cutaway of Daniel in the studio chair looking, now, completely furious.
“Daniel Cleaver has come out with his attempt at a ‘serious novel’:
The Poetics of Time.
Tom O’Shea! Bill Sharp! Novelists yourselves, and, of course, distinguished critics: Quick thoughts, what do you make of it?”
“This is the single biggest pile of stinking unreadable shit I’ve ever had the misfortune to plough through,” said Tom O’Shea.
“Bill?”
The two critics were seated beside the presenter, looking very concerned.
“It’s neurybathic, neretic, aureate, platitudinous, egregious, insensate, macaronic…”
“Could you translate, Bill?” said the presenter.
“Total unreadable toss,” said Bill Sharp.
“Well, let’s hear a little bit and decide for ourselves, shall we?” said the presenter.
There was a clip of Daniel in front of a bookshelf, reading earnestly from
The Poetics of Time:
“The winds shrieked the devil’s shroud as the birds cawed beneath Veronica’s splayed legs. We gorged, raw. Her eyes were all big.”
There were snorts of laughter from the studio. The show cut to Tom O’Shea and Bill Sharp, helpless with mirth in the studio, and Daniel squirming between them and the presenter.
—
6.30 p.m. OMG. There is the sound of a key in the lock. Maybe burglars?
“Coo-ey!” My mother. I forgot I gave
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