Nobody Loves a Ginger Baby (19 page)

It is at this point that Daphne wakes up, desperate for the toilet again.

Pierce has been invited to yet another book launch. Yet another shithead has somehow managed, no doubt by having a
brother-in-law in the business and/or by arse licking, to get a book published. This particular guy, Frank, Pierce reluctantly admits, actually has a modicum of talent. Two or three years ago, until he began to move in more auspicious circles, Frank attended Pierce’s Thursday night writer’s group at the Clansman. Pierce had encouraged him; it was refreshing to have someone in the group whose work was actually readable. Frank paid attention and took on board every suggestion Pierce made. And now Frank was reaping the benefits.

Pierce liked Frank, it was hard not to: he loved Pierce’s work. He believed Pierce to be an undiscovered genius. Frank was the first to admit that he himself was a beginner but he was keen to learn, grateful for Pierce’s advice and he had tremendous energy and enthusiasm. Pierce tried not to dampen Frank’s fervour but felt obligated to warn him of the realities of trying to make a living from writing. Frank had naively assumed that he would learn how to write a good book, then simply write one and sell it to a publisher, wasn’t that what publishers wanted, he asked: good books?

Pierce is not sure whether or not he should go to the launch. He’s embarrassed that Frank, who once sat at his feet, who had at one time referred to Pierce by his surname, talking about
McCormack’s
new piece in the same way he might talk about
Roth
or
Murakami
, that Frank the disciple should have now so eclipsed him. But it is the free drink and schmoozing opportunities that finally swing it.

The bookshop is mobbed when he gets there. This is even more embarrassing. Pierce had assumed that it would be a modest little affair with a few bottles of Chianti and three rows of Frank’s family and friends. There must be two hundred people here. It seems that Frank has had rave reviews, which have been blown up to poster size and are hung on the wall behind the podium from where he will read excerpts. The city’s literati have turned out and Pierce recognises several agents and editors that it would be foolish to approach. Three have rejected his work more than twice, one that Pierce spilled a pint over and one whose top client’s book Pierce insisted would make excellent material with which to wipe his arse.
During the reading Pierce lurks at the back, close to the wine table. He is surprised and not a little moved when Frank spots him and singles him out for praise.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ says Frank, ‘if it hadn’t been for the help and support I’ve had from so many of you, this book would never have made it. For instance, there’s a man at the back there, Pierce McCormack, I’m sure he’s a familiar figure to some of you.

‘When I first began writing I was producing the worst kind of self-referential drivel, believe me, I’m embarrassed to think of it now, but Pierce, with his insight, constructive criticism and
encouragement
, kept me afloat.’

Frank then says a lot of other stuff about how much he owes his wife blah blah blah, but Pierce can’t really take it in. This is the first time anyone, anyone in these snooty publishing circles, has acknowledged that he has insight, that his criticism is
constructive
, that he is encouraging. This is the first acknowledgement of Pierce’s talent. It’s just a pity that Frank has stopped calling him McCormack.

After the reading is the book signing and there is a long queue of people waiting. Despite this Frank calls out to Pierce and waves him over. This might be a little ticklish; Pierce never buys books at these readings. He rarely, if ever, pays full whack for a book. If he wants a certain book he’ll request it at the library. If he can’t get it there he’ll try Bookcrossing, failing that, second-hand from the Oxfam bookshop, then Amazon. As a last resort he’ll buy a new one, heavily discounted, in Asda.

‘Pierce! Thanks for coming, it’s great to see you, what are you up to?’ asks Frank in one excited gush. Frank is a tall skinny young-old guy. He has the face of a pre-teen but the hairline of a pensioner. His face is chubby, unlined and darkly freckled. His hair makes a skirt around his head while his scalp continues the freckles theme. This makes him look as if a bird has shit on him. Frank has left an old lady standing at the front of the queue, a copy of his book in her hand, opened and ready for signing.

‘Aye, y’know Frank, ducking and diving.’

‘Here,’ says Frank, reaching behind him and pulling a book from
a huge pile of pre-signed ones, ‘is there anything you want me to put or can I write it myself?’

‘Actually Frank, I left the house in such a hurry to get here I’ve come out without my…’

‘God no, I couldn’t ask you to pay for it. This is from my own allocation. I hope you don’t mind, Pierce, but I’d be really interested to hear what you think of it.’

‘It doesn’t make any odds what I think of it, Frank. You’ve got the reviews; you’ll get the sales, you’re going to be a big success.’

‘I don’t know about that, Pierce. Anyway, I hope you’ll let me know what you think.’

‘Sure I will.’

‘By the way Pierce, what are you up to afterwards?’ And without waiting for a reply Frank continues, ‘There’s a party, round the corner at the West Coast hotel, but don’t mention it to anyone, will you? It’s a private do, only
those and such as those.’

In this elitist world of bona fide book publishing Pierce is now counted amongst
those and such as those
.

There is a wider range of drink at the private do, a free bar in fact, but Pierce takes the decision to pace himself. He has to treat this occasion as work, at least until he’s schmoozed the agents and publishers, or everyone else is pished, whichever occurs earliest.

A horsey-looking woman accosts him at the bar as he is
ordering
a long drink, vodka and Diet Coke.

‘So you’re Pierce, then?’

‘Yes, I am. But I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’

‘I’m Arab.’

It’s always advisable to know whom you’re dealing with at this type of bash, thinks Pierce.

‘Oh,’ says Pierce, ‘and your name is?’

‘Arab.’

‘Oh.’

‘Short for Arabella, but for God’s sake, call me Arab.’

‘Okay.’

Arab. She’s got to be in publishing with a name like that.

‘Are you a friend of Frank’s? Arabel…eh, Arab?’

‘I’m Frank’s publicist, he’s such a sweet boy.’

The conversation continues along the lines of how great Frank is while Pierce gallantly gets a double vodka in for Arab. He’s finding it difficult to whip up the enthusiasm to fancy her. He knows that women know when he doesn’t fancy them, it must show somehow, and he so wants to fancy her. Not a bad pair on her and good
childbearing
hips but it’s her overbite that’s putting him off. He keeps trying to work out the logistics of kissing her.

‘Pierce!’ calls Frank.

Not again. Pierce is of course grateful to Frank for the mention in his speech and the invite to the party, but for fuck’s sake. Can Frank not see he’s putting the moves on the publicist?

‘Pierce!’

As Pierce has made no move towards him, Frank has come to Pierce. He has propelled along beside him a small curly-haired woman. Tottering on ridiculously high heels, light brown curls are falling over light blue eyes and she’s giggling. Pierce takes to her immediately, hoping she’s not Frank’s wife.

‘Pierce. I want you to meet my editor, Daisy. Daisy, this is the Pierce McCormack I told you about. A great writer, our best-kept literary secret, you should snap him up.’

And Frank is gone.

‘Can I get you a drink, Daisy?’ asks Pierce quickly.

Daisy has had a few but none the less accepts a double vodka and Red Bull. Pierce tries to keep the conversation literary, discussing with his serious face the novel that he’s working on, but Daisy is apparently more interested in whispering and giggling with Arab. Twice he has asked her if he can send her a few sample chapters but she appears not to have heard him. After ten minutes of this Pierce can schmooze no more. Daisy is the only person worth meeting here and she’s not interested. He’s tired now and just wants to get drunk on the free bar.

‘Hey girls, I’m getting them in, doubles all round again?’

The girls readily agree and seem to be impressed with Pierce’s ability, completely unabashed, to order so many free drinks in such a short space of time.

‘I’m a bit behind you lot,’ Pierce explains, ‘I’m going to slam this one,’ he says before he knocks his double vodka and Red Bull back in two gulps. Arab and Daisy attempt to follow suit.

‘Put your head back and skelp it down your thrapple,’ he advises as Arab chokes on hers.

‘Whoa Tiger,’ he tells her while she coughs exuberantly and eventually recovers, ‘I thought I was going to have to give you the Heimlich manoeuvre there.’

‘Yeah,’ says Daisy, her cutsey blue eyes glistening, ‘She likes it from behind.’

‘Not as much as you though Daisy, eh?’

Daisy laughs. Now she’s paying attention to him. Now Pierce is on solid ground, he’s comfortably with this kind of slack banter, good at it, and, so it seems, is Daisy.

Two hours later Pierce is at the after-pub disco with a girl on each arm. He, slightly less drunk than the women, is nervous of what they’ll think of the place. As they queue in the dingy
hallway
, jostled by fat bouncers, their feet stick to the carpet. But they hardly notice where they are; they just want to dance. Pierce installs them in a booth; this will make it harder for other men, other lone wolves, to approach.

Pierce wants to show good manners and makes a point of
dancing
with each lady in turn.

‘Do you want a drink, girls?’

Daisy and Arab have had enough, they are floppy and cling to each other, holding each other up. Drinks are expensive here.

‘Yeah, cheers Pierce, get me double vodka and Red Bull.’

‘Me too.’

When Pierce comes here he always gets a bottle of beer, he knows from trial and error samplings, which is the cheapest. He makes it last all night; never offering, never accepting drinks from anyone else.

‘Hiya Pierce, how you doing?’ asks a small voice behind him.

It’s Julia, a girl he has slept with once or twice. As he recalls the separate occasions he realises it is actually four times.

‘Aye, no bad, Julia, and yourself?’

‘Aye. Okay.’

Pierce’s heart sinks. Aye. Okay, means not okay. She wants to talk.

Julia is a lovely girl, a bright-eyed red-cheeked round-bottomed innocent. A single parent with twin boys. The twins must be three or four but Pierce can’t remember their names so is unable to ask after them.

Julia’s husband left six months after the twins were born. He phoned her from a friend’s house to say that he wasn’t coming back. When Julia asked him why he simply replied that he wasn’t really enjoying it, married life was hard work and boring, he didn’t want to do it any more. Pierce knows this because Julia told him. She has told him four times now. Pierce is sympathetic, he likes Julia and has tried with her but the most she ever wants, the most she says she can deal with, is a one-night thing. She only wants him to listen and then fuck her. She always puts him out early in the morning before the twins wake up.

‘Listen Julia, I’m a bit tied up tonight, I’m in with a few
publishing
colleagues.’

‘
Colleagues
? Is that what you’re calling them?’

Pierce thinks this is a bit rich. She’s the one who has repeatedly turfed him out of her warm bed at five o’clock in the morning after he’s served his purpose.

‘Sorry, I’ve got a bit of business to do. Another night, eh Julia?’

Julia peers up at him, her obvious annoyance at odds with her angelic features. Then she appears to accept it.

‘Yeah, sure Pierce. No bother, another night. Phone me if you want. Phone me anytime.’

‘Yeah, I will.’

Julia has never been so forthcoming before. He did phone her once and asked her out to the pictures but she sighed heavily and said she couldn’t get a babysitter and even if she could, she couldn’t afford one. Pierce put the phone down feeling vaguely guilty. But his being here with Daisy and Arab has obviously upped the ante.

He gets coppers in change from the tenner that he hands over for the drinks but he has to regard this as an investment. When
he goes back to the table he will demand of Daisy that she let him send her his work. When he goes back to the table the girls are nowhere to be seen. They are dancing again.

He joins them on the floor and the three of them begin a slow wobbly jive. Pierce takes both their hands leading them towards him and away, turning them under his arms, into his arms,
twirling
them both to and fro as they giggle and stagger. He is good at this. Arab and Daisy are unfamiliar with this old-fashioned way of dancing, but they seem to like it. Although their co-ordination is shot, if he is slow and controlled, they keep up.

Other men are watching him. These girls with their posh
accents
and expensive understated clothes are something that most of them could never aspire to, and Pierce has two. If only Megan from the speed dating could see him now.

Pierce tries a new move, pulling one girl at a time in to him. As they curl their bodies towards him he nuzzles their neck. By his body movements he implies that this is part of the dance. This goes so well he is inspired to improvise. Now he’s kissing their necks. It’s actually a bit rushed and he is slightly nervous each time one of them crashes towards him but it looks good, and other men are watching. By the end of the record he has snogged both of them, full on the lips, mouths open, tongues. Surprisingly, despite her overhang, Arab is the more adept snogger of the two. But it is Daisy he wants; Daisy the editor.

‘Daisy!’

‘Pierce!’

‘Will I send you my stuff?’

Daisy’s face crumples and her hand waves in front of her face in a don’t-let’s-talk-shop manner but Pierce has come too far and spent too much to let it go. As they make their way back to the table, with his arms around both the girls, Daisy hooks her finger into the back of his jeans.