to absorb the paragraphs here and there, and for the last twenty-five minutes up in his room he had read the opening chapters entirely, and the last ten pages of the unfinished script.
“Our school,” said Rowland, “also looks over the lake.”
Monty sat with the fat package on his lap and looked at Chris. “You’ve put in a lot of work, here.”
“Oh, yes, I should be finished quite soon. I have two alternative endings. I have to make a choice.”
“Yes, choice . . . Choices are rather a problem aren’t they?”
“It will turn out all right.”
“It will be all right because of your youth and the publicity you’ve spread about. How far has the film project come along? Do you have a contract?”
“Not yet. Of course, they’re waiting for publication of the book itself.”
“The book itself,” said the publisher, “is actually a lot of shit.”
“Oh, come,” said Rowland in a very soft, awed, voice.
“Are you trying to beat down the price?” said Chris.
“I haven’t made an offer,” said the publisher.
“But there are other publishers, other offers,” said Chris.
“And other authors,” said Monty. “Which reminds me I have to hire a car to get back to Geneva for dinner tonight. I have an author to see, there in Geneva. Very interesting . . .” He got up and went to the desk to order his car. When he came back he didn’t sit down again. He merely shook their hands and said to Chris, “I’ll be interested to see the final draft. Our readers will get copies. I think, though, you’ll have a lot of work to do on the book. That would be up to the editors if they could rework it. If they could . . . Nice to see you. Good-bye. Good-bye.”
16
That Chris’s book needed a whole lot of work on it was a story that soon caught on in the swift tale-bearing publishing world. Chris, struggling with his alternative endings, was now stuck in his final chapter. Shaken by Monty Fergusson’s reaction he telephoned a literary agent, from whose tone he sensed a decided drop in enthusiasm for his forthcoming novel.
“Monty Fergusson is an enemy,” he told Nina, who reported it to Rowland.
“Not an enemy of yours, anyway,” Rowland said. He didn’t go so far as to tell her that Chris could be regarded as her enemy, but he recounted calmly the embarrassing encounter in the hotel sitting room with Monty Fergusson.
“He’s reputed to be tough,” Nina said.
“Where money’s concerned they’re all tough. It’s only because he’s a juvenile prodigy that Chris has all this attention. Perhaps if he was an active author of 100 years old in a wheelchair the result would be the same.”
“But he looks nice and wild. The younger set will like him.”
“The younger people don’t read books much. They’re not all like us.”
“What about the movie?”
“If you ask me,” said Rowland, shaking a lock of hair off his face, “the whole thing’s an air bubble. The book’s a lot of shit.”
“That isn’t unusual.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She could see Rowland was less tense, even pleased at the awful meeting with the very busy publisher. She noticed he was making notes on his computer. He looked up and said, “Practical jokers can easily become psychopaths, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes, but what has Chris actually done that’s awful?” said Nina.
“He has awful ideas.”
“Oh, ideas . . .”
Tilly was all vigilant. She made it her business to know that a few days later Chris had put through a call to an alternative publisher, who was expected to ring him back but didn’t.
She went to see him in his room. “There’s no need to panic,” she told him.
“Perhaps not for me,” said Chris.
Fax to Alexander Archer:
Dear Dad,
I’m glad to hear you got a promotion, you are going to need the money there is this dance coming up at the end of term one of us outshining the other a five star do, and there is a boutique in Lausanne with some dresses of my choice. My shoes are
“Our school,” said Rowland, “also looks over the lake.”
Monty sat with the fat package on his lap and looked at Chris. “You’ve put in a lot of work, here.”
“Oh, yes, I should be finished quite soon. I have two alternative endings. I have to make a choice.”
“Yes, choice . . . Choices are rather a problem aren’t they?”
“It will turn out all right.”
“It will be all right because of your youth and the publicity you’ve spread about. How far has the film project come along? Do you have a contract?”
“Not yet. Of course, they’re waiting for publication of the book itself.”
“The book itself,” said the publisher, “is actually a lot of shit.”
“Oh, come,” said Rowland in a very soft, awed, voice.
“Are you trying to beat down the price?” said Chris.
“I haven’t made an offer,” said the publisher.
“But there are other publishers, other offers,” said Chris.
“And other authors,” said Monty. “Which reminds me I have to hire a car to get back to Geneva for dinner tonight. I have an author to see, there in Geneva. Very interesting . . .” He got up and went to the desk to order his car. When he came back he didn’t sit down again. He merely shook their hands and said to Chris, “I’ll be interested to see the final draft. Our readers will get copies. I think, though, you’ll have a lot of work to do on the book. That would be up to the editors if they could rework it. If they could . . . Nice to see you. Good-bye. Good-bye.”
16
That Chris’s book needed a whole lot of work on it was a story that soon caught on in the swift tale-bearing publishing world. Chris, struggling with his alternative endings, was now stuck in his final chapter. Shaken by Monty Fergusson’s reaction he telephoned a literary agent, from whose tone he sensed a decided drop in enthusiasm for his forthcoming novel.
“Monty Fergusson is an enemy,” he told Nina, who reported it to Rowland.
“Not an enemy of yours, anyway,” Rowland said. He didn’t go so far as to tell her that Chris could be regarded as her enemy, but he recounted calmly the embarrassing encounter in the hotel sitting room with Monty Fergusson.
“He’s reputed to be tough,” Nina said.
“Where money’s concerned they’re all tough. It’s only because he’s a juvenile prodigy that Chris has all this attention. Perhaps if he was an active author of 100 years old in a wheelchair the result would be the same.”
“But he looks nice and wild. The younger set will like him.”
“The younger people don’t read books much. They’re not all like us.”
“What about the movie?”
“If you ask me,” said Rowland, shaking a lock of hair off his face, “the whole thing’s an air bubble. The book’s a lot of shit.”
“That isn’t unusual.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She could see Rowland was less tense, even pleased at the awful meeting with the very busy publisher. She noticed he was making notes on his computer. He looked up and said, “Practical jokers can easily become psychopaths, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes, but what has Chris actually done that’s awful?” said Nina.
“He has awful ideas.”
“Oh, ideas . . .”
Tilly was all vigilant. She made it her business to know that a few days later Chris had put through a call to an alternative publisher, who was expected to ring him back but didn’t.
She went to see him in his room. “There’s no need to panic,” she told him.
“Perhaps not for me,” said Chris.
Fax to Alexander Archer:
Dear Dad,
I’m glad to hear you got a promotion, you are going to need the money there is this dance coming up at the end of term one of us outshining the other a five star do, and there is a boutique in Lausanne with some dresses of my choice. My shoes are
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