Still reflecting in the glory of last week’s Lightship launch, I lay in the bath and reached into our magazine rack (which is where I stack out of date colour supplements because I am too stingy to throw them away before we have read them which we never do over the weekend) and found a copy of The Sunday Times Magazine dated 13th November ’11.
Opening the page, I had a sudden reversal of my self congratulations. Because the first article was all about Martina Cole making her several millions of pounds through her writing. I am connected to Martina Cole by that theory of six degrees of separation which claims that, through the links between six different people, everyone knows everyone else. In the case of Martina Cole and myself, the chain is composed of three people. I had met Darley Anderson, her literary agent, and persuaded him to read my first novel, just about the time that he had taken on Martina Cole. According to the article, Darley told Martina, ‘You are going to be a star.’ And she is. After reading my manuscript, he told me, ‘You could be one of the big writers.’ But I’m not. No hard feelings about either Martina or Darley. My novel was nowhere near as clever as Martina’s or as wicked or as racey. Which is why Darley sent it back with a ‘Thank you, but no thank you.’
I stared at the photograph of Martina Cole with her son and read descriptions of how they enjoyed her wealth, BMWs, houses everywhere, you know the kind of thing. And there was me, in the bath in my one house with a Citroen parked outside. I never met Martina but I did have lunch once with her great friend Lesley Pearse, also a client of Darley Anderson.
Enough of not being a famous writer, let us turn the page of the magazine. To find a photograph of Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen. Lawrence was one of the students on my foundation course at Camberwell School of Art, although he was plain Lawrence Bowen then, the Llewellyn being added, I assume, as an indication of his qualification to change rooms. Before you ask, no I am not the same generation as Lawrence, but was going through a phase of life described by my son as my ‘mid-life crisis’ while I followed the course as a mature student. Lawrence and I attended a life drawing class, on a Tuesday. He didn’t, of course, take the slightest notice of me; me being a boring, middle-aged mum with no right to draw or paint and him being the trendy, seventeen year old destined to be a brilliant artist. I am not going to spill the beans on what it was like to have Lawrence in the class, but if a young woman called Vanessa with loads of golden hair down her back is reading this she will no doubt remember her constant exclamations of ‘Oh, do shut up Lawrence’. Not that I have any right to cast aspersions at Lawrence, since he won a place on the Fine Arts BA course and I didn’t. As you all know, he isn’t a great painter but what was once called a television personality. Nevertheless, there he was in the mag and there I was lying in the bath.
Recently, as the younger generation take their place amongst the names bandied around in the media, I am able to listen to what some of them are up to and a warm feeling comes over me at how well they are all doing. Adam Holloway resigning the Whip in the House of Commons so that he can honour his promises to his constituents; Louise Mensche rivalling Jeffrey Archer in the field of producing best-selling block-busters and now making a brisk rise in the world of politics; Nick Gottschalk, art director, who doesn’t get his name in the papers but on the credits of films such as Atonement and Pride and Prejudice; Alex Williamson, ditto but directing films for the BBC and the Discovery channel and Laura McDermott, producing successfully The Masque of the Red Death at Battersea Arts Centre and being Joint Aritstic Director of Birmingham’s Fierce! Festival.
All these people, are connected, through me, by the theory of three degrees of separation, all are from the happy group of children I either baby sat or ate after-school tea with.
Enough of all this name dropping. I am now ‘the writer who won the inaugural short story prize in the Lightship competition’ and will, one day, be the writer of a novel short-listed for the Orange Prize. Just as long as I finish the thing, find an agent who likes it enough to take it on, a publisher who will sink masses of money into promoting it and millions of women who will buy it and read it.
Time to stop day dreaming, get out of the bath and have an early night so that I wake at 6am tomorrow, ready to open up my lap-top.
Which is what I will continue to do whether I am famous or not.
PS: Darley, if you are reading this, please leave a comment to the effect that you are keen to be my agent again.
PPS My apologies for this blog being tardy in its arrival but I was delayed by a long weekend at the establishment of Le Verger in Northern France. Anyone can stay there; it is a fantastic place and you can find it on www.houseinnorthernfrance.com
In ref. to he establishment of Le Verger in Northern France.
Anyone can stay there……what does that mean?
I have given the web address. Le Verger is available for holidays, family get togethers or for corporate events.
chiswickwriter who has no financial connection with Le Verger.