An extract from the opening section of Hot Air

i

WHEN MADISON MAGRAW told her lover she was planning to fly in from LA for the week-end, Ned Broome’s natural anticipation was mixed with sweet sensations of romantic panic. Maddie was that kind of woman; and he was that kind of Englishman. How else to explain his behaviour on the appointed day ? It was high noon, and Broome was still in bed. Now there is a school of thought which holds that you should not start a novel with the weather, but on this Friday in June, the oppressive midday sun was sweating the inhabitants of London like the souls of the damned, so perhaps global warming will excuse the torpor of our protagonist. Ms Magraw might be inclined to disagree, but there were other factors in play, not all of them to do with her romantic expectations, or Ned’s.

A decade ago, when Broome began his career as the literary editor of The Examiner, his now-deceased father asked about his son’s journalistic duties in a crescendo of incredulity.

‘You go in every morning ?’

‘Yes.’

‘You get all the latest novels and biographies ?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then you write book reviews ?’

‘Not really, Dad. Other people do that. I just arrange for the books to be sent out.’

‘I see. So you’re a kind of posh postman ?’

‘If you want to put it that way. Of course, it’s the selection that counts.’

‘Does anyone actually read these reviews ?’

‘People who matter do.’

‘And you do this every day ?

‘Yes.’

Broome’s father had spent a lifetime in the soft drinks trade. Now, having pondered his son’s schedule, he went to the heart of the trouble. ‘So what on earth do you do in the afternoons ?’

Broome was never able to give a satisfactory answer to this question. Ten years on, it partly explained why, on this midsummer Friday, when the rest of the world was getting and spending, he was in bed, asleep. Last night’s PEN quiz, at which The Examiner’s team had triumphed, had been late, rowdy and exhausting. Now, however, Ned was beyond trivia. On his return home, he had switched off both his phones. Literally, the only way to rouse him would have been to break down the front door of his inaccessible East End address. Not that Snagge, the editor of The Examiner, would have been squeamish. In his time, he had roused his reporters with handfuls of gravel, pliant policemen and once, on a famous occasion, a well-aimed firework.

There was not much gravel to be found around Verbena Villas, nor many policemen, and a fireworks factory could have been detonated without comment. Broome’s house, no 32, was at the end of a depressing brick row, adjoining a hair salon, and opposite the Khyber Stores, a 24-hour supermarket. About twenty minutes, on a bicycle, from The Examiner, Broome’s two-up, two-down was ideal for its owner, remote but snug. Once, for a season or two, Broome had nurtured hopes of doing it up, before moving on to a better neighbourhood. Those aspirations were long gone, and so were the women – Dominique, Katie, Monica et al – who had encouraged such schemes. All that remained of those palmy, optimistic days were swatches of fabric now buried beneath a ziggurat of yellow newspapers, jiffybags, videotapes, typescripts, and bundles of unbound proof copies, underpinned by various empties. Ned was not extravagant, but he could project a prodigal air. His immediate circle was composed of contemporaries from university, a mutable constellation of ex-girlfriends, and a few colleagues from the newspaper. Although he was often perceived as a loner, he was good at friendship with those to whom he felt close. From the bookshelves of his library, rows of elderly hardback spines looked down on the chaos of his single life like fifty-somethings at a teenage rave.

In the middle of this bachelor maelstrom, a semi-extinct creature in a rare habitat, Ned Broome lay sprawled on his back, breathing lightly. In another age, he might have enjoyed a reputation as a man of letters, with inky fingers and ash on his sleeve, but in these less cultivated times, he was simply a tall, youngish-looking forty-two, with dark, straggling curls and the beginnings of a middle-aged paunch. Technically, he was asleep, but he was also dimly aware, through a fog of semi-consciousness, that he was a) in his own bed and b) hungover. More pressing than the insistent throbbing in his head was the realisation that sunshine was in business beyond the broken Venetian blinds. Never mind Dominique and the others – they were mostly married now, with kids – daylight meant Friday, and Friday meant The Examiner. Years ago, when he had laboured as a copy writer, Fridays were a prelude of truancy to the long week-end. Not any more, and especially not today: forget The Examiner. Madison was coming to town. Broome rolled over under the duvet and fumbled for his watch.

Twelve fifteen ! He grabbed the phone to double-check with the speaking clock, but for some reason the line was dead. Then he remembered: the quiz.

Thank God they had won. The editor’s last words as he weaved off into the night from the forecourt of the Savoy had been ‘Well done, Broome. Zen-sational. A notable victory for common sense and superior journalism’. At the moment he said goodnight to Snagge, Ned had been more or less sober. Had he been too reckless again ? After the competition, he had headed back to the American bar to celebrate. A convivial soul, Broome knew he’d been rather indiscreet with Dick Horris-Lane, the too-friendly diarist from the Evening Lite. It was after four o’clock when he climbed into a minicab and gave directions for the ride east into the opalescent light of a metropolitan summer’s dawn. Now the sun was high, the mercury was rising, and there was no postponing the moment of truth.

Broome rose, bleary-eyed, and went to the bathroom where he filled a glass, and swallowed two Nurofen tablets. Then he turned on the shower and let the healing waters of the Thames wash away the taste of the night before. Still dripping, he plugged in the phone and listened to last night’s calls. No fewer than eleven messages awaited him. The first went as follows: ‘Hi, Ned. It’s Petsie. Might there be some midsummer madness in the west country ? Call me. Bye.’ There was a wild-eyed anxiety about Petronella that still rang alarm bells, but the next message was disturbing in quite another way. ‘Hi, Ned, hi. It’s Jamie, down in Craxton. Listen, love, the committee still wants that preview of your Parnassus thing, right. ? Call me when you can. Byee.’

As part of The Examiner’s sponsorship, Broome had thoughtlessly suggested giving a talk to the Craxton Literary Festival: ‘Climbing Mount Parnassus: The Top One Hundred Books of All Time’. This event was now scheduled for tomorrow evening, at Craxton-on-Sea, and he had hardly written a word. Among his colleagues on The Examiner, it was widely held that he should cut his losses and denounce the Booker prize. Anyone else might have been agitated by his predicament, but Ned knew from experience that somehow – one of those little mysteries of existence – things always came together on the day.

The next call had come in at ten that morning. ‘Mr Broome. This is Emma, from Petronella Straw’s office. We would like to arrange a meeting to discuss the progress of your manuscript. Would you call, please ?’

Ned enjoyed a modest reputation as the author of three forgettable novels about forgettable men and women in forgettable situations loosely derived from his, Edward Broome’s, fairly forgettable early life. Two years ago, in a fit of enthusiasm about ‘new voices for the new century’, glamorous Ms Straw had advanced him ten thousand pounds, but the novel – working title: How To Fly – was scarcely better advanced than his imminent lecture on the world’s top one hundred books. He continued to listen, on tenterhooks. Two more unidentified callers, then this: husky, camp and Californian. ‘Hi, Ned... This is Sam at FWAW calling on behalf of Maddie Magraw....’ Broome, with a sense of relief, wiped that message, too. So Madison was coming to town – at last! The machine continued to spout its news:

‘Hey, babe. C’est moi. Just walking onto the plane now. Wheels up and ready to roll. Can’t wait to see you. We’re going to have fun. Kiss kiss. Love you.’

Ned’s meeting with Madison Magraw, through a series of happy accidents, had been the high point of that year’s Sundance. Although Books not Film was his beat, a staff crisis at The Examiner found him sharing cappuccinos with the indy crowd above the snowline in Colorado. Introduced to Madison by a mutual friend at the Los Angeles Times, he was, she told him, ‘a delightful enigma’, and then confessed an embarrassing fascination with Brits, which she described as ‘our national failing’. Broome knew of himself that his romantic heart was inclined to be shamefully passive. With Madison, he was more than ever the victim of his feelings: somehow, he simply could not break out of her New World spell. In their different ways they were both at the mercy of their erotic fantasies. This visit to London was supposed to be a rendezvous with reality, but with her arrival due, Broome was suddenly doubtful. Desire had become tangled up with some rather more confusing emotions. The worst of being single in your forties was that people would always ask if you were in love. It was a complex question, but perhaps there was no denying it this time: had he not finally reached the age of wisdom ? In Verbena Villas, facing the cracked bathroom mirror with self-critical candour, Broome double checked the hour of Maddie’s likely landing, and reckoned there was no need to freak out. If he met her off the plane, perhaps he could retain the initiative, and have a reasonable chance of keeping her away from No. 32.

Even in the depths of his hangover, Ned was conscious that his olde worlde appeal to the bright, west coast sensuality of his Californian girlfriend would not survive even the most cursory inspection of his habitat. Broome looked about him: it was home, but it was not, alas, home as he imagined most Americans would want it. What Madison called his ‘troglodyte existence’ had already been an issue between them. For all her delightful optimism, and easy good humour, she could still muster quite pointed remarks about the three Cs – caffeine, cholesterol and cancer – with allusions to the big A, acupuncture. One glance at the empties and the piles of newsprint would confirm her view of Broome the caveman. English women might adjust to this without complaint; American women marched to a different drum. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness translated, Broome had found, into a ceaseless quest for improved material and psychic well-being.

Now, brushing his teeth, he estimated when Madison’s plane would touch down. If the red-eye took off before midnight... But he knew this flight only too well, squashed into an economy seat at the back of the plane, recovering from long week-ends of what his latest girlfriend liked to call ‘our red-eye romance’. Broome was digesting the implications of his calculations in suspended breathlessness when he was grounded by two messages from The Examiner.

‘Ned. It’s Nicole in the editor’s office. I think you should come in. Pronto, d’you understand.’

‘Hi, Nicole again. Where are you ? Don is going to want a meeting, Ned. Now.’

Edward Broome was hungover. Worse, he was wondering if he was not also caught in some nightmarish time-warp. Something had gone wrong last night, but what ? He reviewed the evening. Salient point: he had been on top form. Against the odds, his team had triumphed. Then what ? The American bar...? Ah yes, that must be the problem. What had he said to Horris-Lane ?

Broome hurried back into the living room, wondering how to embark on the lightning makeover that would satisfy his American girlfriend, when the phone rang again. This time, readier to face the world, and curious about its latest intrusion, he turned up the volume on the answerphone and was chilled to hear the steely, remorseless tones of his neighbour at last night’s quiz. ‘Mister Broome. This is Stella Bentley. I have spoken to the diarist on the Lite. I will be speaking to your editor. The finger points at you. I would like you, please, to call me and explain your outrageous behaviour. I shall be on-air in the studio between one and one-thirty. But I shall expect your call thereafter.’

Click.

‘Outrageous behaviour ?’ ‘The finger points at you ?’ This must be why Snagge was wanting to see him. When he had to be, late-rising Ned was a high-speed dresser. In no time at all, he was downstairs in the Khyber Stores, and staring at the front page of the midday edition of the Evening Lite in horror. There were many ways to describe the emotional life of Britain’s premier newscaster, but the tabloid diarist does not take prisoners.

‘Lovestruck Stella’s Last Chance Saloon ? Page 6.’

With a sinking heart, Broome turned to page six. The newspaper’s report of the PEN quiz was splashed across the diary, accompanied by a full-length colour photograph of the famous anchorwoman in an revealing ball gown, dripping with sequins. Typical Lite. At last night’s quiz Ms Bentley had been demurely dressed in denim jeans with a low-cut blouse. Now horribly awake, he began to read:

“Sexy single anchorwoman Stella Bentley was Examiner editor Don Snagge’s date last night at the annual PEN quiz. Before the big night, anxious observers from the ‘Swot’ feared that ‘Colonel Mad’ was hoping gorgeous Stella would take leave of her senses and become the second Mrs Snagge. No more, alas. ‘She’s a lovely woman’, gushed one egg-head close to the Swot, ‘but not the brightest light in the studio’. With no thanks to his date, ‘Colonel Mad’ steered his team to victory over many rivals. ‘We were lucky to scrape a win’, said another ‘Swot’ teamster. ‘Stella was hopeless. When she couldn’t remember the winner of the Eurovision song contest she’d actually hosted, Snagge went off the reservation and they had this awful row.’ Solo Stella went home in the small hours, but not to the sound of wedding bells. ‘I’ve had a lovely time’, she gushed to Page Six. ‘There are so many clever people here. I was thrilled to be on the winning team.’ Asked about ‘Cap’n Bonkers’, she confided: ‘Don’t be ridiculous, we are just terribly good friends.’ Snagge, meanwhile, is still fighting his ex, Down Under Diva Doreen, through the Family Division at great personal cost. Wicked whispers say that he is being comforted by a bevy of old flames, but has anyone told Stella ?”

Broome stared in horror at the newspaper, ‘the second Mrs Snagge... Stella was hopeless... awful row... bevy of old flames’, inwardly chilled by his terrible indiscretion. He threw the paper aside. His bicycle was propped up in the hallway of no. 32, but this was a crisis. He grabbed his wallet and mobile phone, and ran out into the thoroughfare at the end of Verbena Villas. A black cab was passing. He scrambled on board. ‘Docklands, as quick as you can. Examiner House.’

‘Are you a journalist ?’ the driver seemed interested. ‘I had that ed – ’

‘Was,’ said Broome. ‘Was.’

In the grand prix of Broome’s career there had been some spectacular smashes, but this one promised to mobilise all the emergency services. He reckoned that Madison was a woman who, for all her maverick independence, placed a certain value on success. How would she respond to the news that she was dating a failure ? From the lower depths of sudden dejection, he became aware of the cabbie’s question. ‘What kind of journalist would that be, sir ?’

‘Oh,’ said Broome, in utter distraction. ‘I commission book reviews,’

‘Books ? I wrote a book once. More rejections than Samuel Beckett, but I never lost my love of words, know what I mean, sir ?’

‘Fail better,’ muttered Broome, lost in his own crisis.

‘Have you, for instance, ever come across “dedolence” ?’

‘No’, replied Broome. ‘Not personally.’ The conversation lapsed until the next intersection when the driver craned round with a look of triumph. ‘“Dedolence”’, he announced, with the flourish of a battered dictionary. ‘Absence of grief or sorrow.’ He twisted in his seat. ‘Nice one, sir. No worries, eh ?’

‘Mind the traffic,’ growled Broome. Worst case scenario, he supposed he could always scratch a living as a mini-cab driver. Would Madison support him while he found a new job? When you faced extinction, as he did now, an indulgent patron might be strangely consoling. He ran his shirt sleeve across his face, wondering if his muck sweat should be attributed as much to global warming as to his predicament.

ii

IN THE OFFICES of The Examiner, London’s oldest Sunday newspaper, the newsroom was feeling the strain of gathering news for the approaching Sunday in quasi-tropical temperatures. The Examiner’s air-conditioning was as sluggish as its circulation. Everyone in Docklands knew that ‘The Swot’, was up against it. Costs were soaring, advertising was in free-fall, and sales were in the tank. Across the world there were some nice little wars and juicy corporate frauds, but The Examiner had to follow television crews and bloggers to bring these stories to its readers’ breakfast tables.

Haroun Wazir, the popular news editor, sat in front of his screen, contemplating the midday edition of the Evening Lite. That gossip item on page six – “Lovestruck Stella’s Last Chance Saloon ?” – had transfixed the newsroom. But the one person with whom everyone wanted to discuss this saucy little snippet, the literary editor, was not at his desk, and no one knew where he was. Ned Broome was a gambler and a survivor, and usually given the benefit of the doubt, but even the most devout admirer had to concede that today his modus operandi left something to be desired. The newsroom buzzed with speculation. Broome was going to need the space of a long lunch to get his story straight.

Where was he ? For Haroun, Ned’s debonair ally and confidant, there was no time to ponder this question further. In the flux of 24/7 journalism, news was always breaking on the attentive shores of The Examiner. ‘Mobiles!’ The challenge sounded on the other side of the newsroom, far away in the section devoted to crime, education and science.

‘Mobiles!’ Heads were turning towards the TV screens dotted around the floor. ‘Mobiles, quick !’ Haroun, diving for his briefcase, amid a sea of discarded newsprint, surfaced in time to see on the screen above him, in flak jacket and signature panama, The Examiner’s chief – indeed only – foreign correspondent, Jack Rooney, fielding questions in front of a burnt-out tank in some godforsaken war zone. Wazir zapped the volume on the TV set above his desk. ‘... the insurgents are on the retreat’, the fiery reporter was saying, ‘and government forces have taken control of the capital after bitter fighting.’

‘Jack, what can you tell us’, the camera cut back to the studio, ‘what can you tell us about the mood of the inhabitants ?’

Examiner correspondents were all about mood. Their reports were famous for little else. Mood. Ambience. Colour... But the television audience would never know what life was really like in the combat zone because at that moment the efforts of the newsroom paid off. Somewhere, under an alien sun, Rooney’s mobile phone picked up the remote signal as reliably as if it had been sitting on his desk next to a stale cheese sandwich and a cup of cold coffee and burst into ‘The ride of the Valkyries.’ A cheer rang through the assembled hacks. Rooney swore loudly and fumbled without success inside his flak jacket. In Docklands, The Examiner’s newsroom was in joyous uproar. Far away, on his private front line, the correspondent faced the camera, seething. Out of shot, his phone continued to ring. ‘You bastards !’ he said. ‘You f – !’ At this moment, the satellite link was cut and the studio director switched cameras.

What then passed between the reporter and his producer is not part of this chronicle, but at The Examiner, the consensus was that it was time to conduct a post-mortem on the happy event in Copperfield’s, the local wine bar. Together with that risque Stella gossip item, there was more than enough to sustain a sultry Friday lunchtime. Snagge, of course, was going to be the main topic of conversation. ‘Now that he’s sacked his wife’, said Travel, ‘he’ll have a taste for blood’. Snagge was renowned for his impetuous firings. As it happened, this post-mortem would be postponed. The Examiner was idiosyncratic in many ways, but it never ceased to be a fine old newspaper, obeying codes of practice as venerable as paper and ink. Just as a group of senior reporters was about to leave for an early lunch, more urgent news began to break.

‘Ohmigod’, said Wazir, to no one in particular. ‘He’s coming.’

Donald ‘Don’ Snagge, the current editor of The Examiner, was usually heard before he was seen. Today, it was not his voice – an instrument that could strike fear into the hearts of his most hard-bitten staff – that preceded him. To the relief of one and all, especially those, like Wazir, who had somehow to justify the news so far gathered, they heard the editor’s ebullient and unmistakable laugh, cannonading towards them from the stairwell by the lift.

‘Did we win ?’ Snagge yelled into his mobile phone. ‘Is the pope a catholic ? Does the sun revolve around the earth – or perhaps I mean the opposite ? Did we win ? Did we, or did we not, kick seven kinds of sh – ? Am I a banana ?’

Wherever the editor was, he always seemed to be urgently on the way to somewhere else. A dozen loping strides brought Snagge in his crumpled linen suit, and swinging an outsize kitbag stuffed with cricket whites and cricket bat, into the middle of the newsroom. A spirited combination of mime and semaphore conveyed the urgency of coffee.

‘Yes, m’dear, we were sun-sational. Snagge’s Golden Rule: say what you like about the Swot, but when our back’s to the wall, we always comes out fighting. Veni, vidi, vici and all that guff. See you, babe, see you.’ Switching off his phone, the editor sank into Wazir’s chair in a commanding gesture of familiarity. Snagge was a tall, athletic-looking man of almost fifty, with a face that interviewers, on those rare occasions they were granted an audience, habitually described as ‘lived in’. Don Snagge hated to talk about himself, and the process was usually, in the words of its subject, ‘utter shite’. Today, he was looking more than usually wild. There was something theatrical about his features; but his shock of white hair, somewhere between the afro and the mad professor, spoke of hedgerows and the dramatic reverse exits of a man with a colourful night life.

‘God, but I need a shave’, he said, lounging back in Wazir’s chair while vaguely scanning the wires. ‘I suppose you intellectuals were just about to sneak off to Copperfield’s,’ he added, examining the staff nearest him with a cynical eye.

Snagge had risen to his present position from the ranks of the sub-editors, via the travel, business and sports desks. There was nothing he did not know about the habits of the British journalist. That was one of the reasons why his staff, who feared him, also nourished a profound but well-concealed admiration for their boss. The Examiner might be a leaky ship (it had been taking in water for decades) but, even in the age of blogs and podcasts, no one was scrambling for the lifeboats. The paper was, indeed, notable for its esprit de corps.

Chief among the editor’s admirers was his PA, Nicole, a commanding, capacious Jamaican woman of indeterminate age, who now appeared from her office adjoining the editor’s suite, carrying a towel, a freshly laundered white shirt in cellophane, and a ham sandwich. ‘You have Friday conference in five minutes’, she observed in a tone that mixed nanny, parole officer, and veteran matron from a secure facility for the criminally insane. ‘And Ned Broome – ’

‘Ned Broome is simply a marvel,’ interrupted the editor. Snagge jumped to his feet. ‘Where’s the news list, anyway ? We’re in severe need of a major “Hey! Daisy” this week’. He pinned Wazir with a significant stare. “Hey! Daisy” was the phrase with which, Snagge liked to believe, The Examiner’s half million readers prefaced their discussion of the latest journalistic sensation. Snagge liked to judge each issue of The Examiner by its “Hey! Daisy” quotient. ‘So, Harry,’ he went on. ‘What delights d’you have for us today ? What rounds ? What jollity ?’

Wazir answered quickly, to retain the initiative, with a giant smile. ‘Change your shirt, Don. Have a shave, and we will bring you the world’s top stories.’

‘Top stories ? Spare me your cliches, Harry. Is that the best you can do ? All I hear is Top Stories and Hard News. What our readers want is original news. That’s what The Examiner stands for: original news in brilliant plumage. Do I make myself clear ?’ He bowled an imaginary off-break. ‘No matter, let’s confer. Say, five minutes ?’

While the editor ambled off to groom himself in the men’s lavatory, the heads of various departments – Sport, Comment, Business, Arts and Fashion – postponed their lunch breaks and, still wondering about the Lite’s diary item, began drifting through the newsroom to gather in his office. Scheduled for noon, but rarely starting before 12.45pm, Friday’s conference was the weekly moment of truth for The Examiner, the hour when the paper began to commit itself to the events it would report on Sunday.

Wazir, who knew how little of interest he had to offer, puzzled over the editor’s exuberance. ‘What’s got into him today ?’

‘Oh, you know,’ said Travel. ‘That page six item’.

‘D’you think he’s seen it ?’

This was the fearful question torturing every mind.

‘Of course he’s seen it. He loves gossip.’

‘I wouldn’t want to be in Broome’s shoes.’

‘Don’t forget that quiz’, said Science. ‘Snagge’s been thinking of nothing else for weeks. Broome was on the team. He’ll be okay if we did well.’

‘You heard the editor ?’ chipped in Business, a sharp suit and designer glasses. ‘We won by several points. The others were nowhere.’

‘You weren’t there ?’

‘You must be joking.’ Business had a young family, a faithless partner in Crouch End, and a weekly column to keep her in at nights. ‘I heard it from The Times’ City editor. They were expecting to win. One of their team is writing a book on quizzes.’

‘I heard they signed up some brilliant don.’

‘Who did we have ?’

‘A couple of idiot-savant subs, and Broome.’

‘Ned’s good at quizzes’, said Wazir, speaking up for his colleague. ‘He went to public school’.

‘Broome ? ’ Snagge returned to the conference, glowing from his shave, and buttoning his shirt from the navel. ‘ Young Broome is more than good. The lad is a marvel.’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Where is Ned anyway ?’

Silence fell on the room. All those who, like Comment and Media, had studied the Lite’s page six, exchanged nervous looks. ‘Never mind,’ said Snagge, slumping into his chair. ‘Probably girl trouble. What’s new on the Rialto ? Let’s have something with bells and whistles – something our readers actually want to read for a change. A mass murder in Holland or France would be good. Those Low Countries are always interesting. Who speaks for Europe ? Harry, I take it you speak for the World ? You should know... Where the fuck is Broome ? Must congratulate him on his sterling efforts. Never mind the world of books, Broome’s appetite for trivia is positively... epicurean. The man has a brain the size of Mesopotamia. I mean, who knows the meaning of “hornswoggle”, and the collective noun for a group of nightingales, or the original title of The Time Machine ? I mean, who ?’

There was a further awkward silence.

‘There. You see what I mean ? Broome is unbeatable. The answer, as any fool knows, is a “hoax”, a “watch”, and The Chronic Argonauts. Those wankers on the dailies had to dine out on their own vomit. Speaking of vomit, Harry, what gives in the wider world ?’

‘In Uzbekistan – ’ Wazir began.

‘Oh, to hell with Uzbekistan,’ interrupted Snagge, with a feral stare. ‘If I never read another word about the trials of the people of sodding Uzbekistan, it won’t be a moment too soon. Come to think of it let’s have some stonking great leader saying in the most unbridled terms that Uzbekistan is no more or less afflicted by debt, disease and fundamentalism than a dozen equally ghastly countries of which we know little, and care less, and that it’s high time we stopped wringing our hands about it. I hate Uzbekistan. What else ?’

Snagge stood up, kicked a chair out of his path, and went over to the mute television by the door, channel-hopped to Ceefax, and stared intently at the screen. The Examiner’s staff held their breath.

‘What we need – ’ Snagge turned to his team. ‘What we need is an uplifting science story from overseas’ – he sketched a headline in the air – ‘The Car That Runs on Marmalade, or some human interest from the world of medicine – The Sea Snail that Saves Lives, or Ingrowing Toenails Cause Coronaries. And what about the Little Monastery in the Peloponnese that Ferments the World’s Most Lethal Spirits ? Or something from African football: The Team That Ate Its Boots. You know what I mean’.

Sport and Foreign swapped glances.

‘Or something pink.’ Snagge was finding his theme. ‘This bloody paper’, he snatched a copy of last week’s edition from the shelf behind him – ‘this paper is too grey. Grey pictures. Grey stories. Grey writing. Could be – must be – brighter. Could be technicolour. Could be... pink ! Surveys show that at least twenty percent of our readers are gay. Let’s have some pink stories. Let’s – let’s have a poll that says pink is best’.

‘We can’t afford a poll,’ said Comment.

‘Why not ?’

‘We blew our poll budget on the sexual attitudes of the under tens’.

That debacle was a source of anguish to Snagge: the readers had complained for weeks. Now he spun round in the direction of the arts editor, Mary Spain, a pale, worried-looking mother of three in a shapeless smock. ‘Yo ho, Mary! There you are. What’s gay in the arts ?’

‘Everything,’ replied Mary coolly, to nervous laughter.

‘My point exactly,’ said the editor, triumphant. ‘It’s good to be gay.’ He looked doubtfully at Travel. ‘Right ? So... ’ a note of crafty calculation crept into his voice, ‘how about an interactive something ? Some frightful blog, or an on-line list ? Hangs around in cyberspace forever. Drives people mad. Gay plays ? Gay books ? Gay gigs to miss ? Those top ten gay operas ?’

‘We did a list last week,’ said Mary, stonewalling with quiet desperation.

‘So we did; so we did. But you know,’ Snagge was never distracted for long, ‘you can’t have too many lists. I know what you intellectuals are thinking, but our readers love lists. What The Examiner must always do is engage with its readers – promote dialogue – controversy – debate – stir up trouble.’

‘Make mischief’, chipped in Bill Coote, appealing to the editor’s deepest ambitions. Coote was one of three deputy editors. A yes-man, whose sexual orientation and job description alike were among the mysteries of The Examiner, he was universally mistrusted.

‘What did you say ?’ Snagge did not like to be interrupted. Coote mumbled something about ‘making more mischief’. The conference held its breath in anticipation of further trouble, but its hopes for Coote’s public annihilation or its fears for an afternoon of editorial attrition were not fulfilled. ‘Ah, mischief !’ Snagge returned to his place at the table. ‘“Mischief thou art afoot....” No matter. About the issue.’ He stared absently into space, seeing nothing, but experiencing only the perplexing ebb and flow of regret. ‘“To mourn a mischief that is past and gone is the nearest way to draw new mischief on”. Who said that ?’

Snagge stared, challenging, at the conference. Another terrible silence fell on the room.

‘Hamlet ?’ gambled Coote.

Moron, thought those who knew their Shakespeare. Creep, thought those who did not.

The editor stood up again, ignoring his deputy. ‘There was a question at last night’s quiz – a question derived from a knowledge of the Sonnets – no, Bill, I was not quoting from the Sonnets – that no fewer than three of The Examiner’s team were able to answer. We may be losing circulation to the beastly behemoth of on-line news but – by God – we haven’t forgotten how to win a charity quiz. Thank heaven for Broome.’ He was now glowering over the conference table. ‘Who said Hamlet ? Since when did Hamlet talk about mischief ? Think !’ He gazed round at his team, inwardly comparing himself to the Duke of Wellington. ‘I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. A great paper like The Examiner depends on wit, wisdom, rare intelligence and ....’

Around the table, Sport, Business and Media folded their newslists and slouched back in their chairs. The editor, enchanted by his own eloquence, could be relied upon to hold forth for several minutes. Today, however, thanks to the reverberations of the Page Six story, their respite was short-lived. Snagge had hardly linked education, mass culture, tourism and the twenty-four hour news cycle to ‘that gruesome equation known as infotainment’ when Nicole opened the door to signal an urgent phone call. ‘Stella Bentley’, she mouthed. These magic syllables made an editor, who was already teetering over an abyss of conflicting emotions, indistinguishable from a cat on hot bricks. ‘Oh Jesus ! Jesus Christ !’

Snagge’s exit from the conference was in character: noisy, uncoordinated and dramatic. ‘Jim, Jim !’ he waved wildly at one of his other deputies. ‘Take conference, will you, I’ve gotta talk to Stella.’

Arts and Sport exchanged knowing looks. This was the moment of truth. Everyone knew that Snagge was going through a messy divorce. The secrets of the editor’s emotional life were usually obscure, but at last night’s quiz, Stella Bentley had decorated The Examiner’s table with queenly grandeur. And now – mirabile dictu – some reckless scribbler had written about it.

‘Good God ! Stella !’ The editor’s exclamations filtered across from Nicole’s office. ‘I don’t believe it ! Of course, of course. Yes, of – I’ll find out. Top team onto it, without fail. I’m so sorry, Stella. I’ll kill them. No – killing’s too – . Vermin, that’s what – . Everyone knows I’m a feminist. Hey – darling, I’m in conference. Gotta fly. Can I call you in twenty ? Ciao. Ciao. Bye !’

This was followed by the sound of a metal waste bin scattered across the floor, a yell of pain as he stubbed his toe, the slamming of a door, and then another cry of rage.

‘Nicole !’

The editor’s roar shook the adjoining room. Travel looked at Business. Sport exchanged glances with Arts, while Media whispered, ‘I think we can assume he hasn’t seen it.’ Comment kept her counsel.

Snagge came back into the meeting, hurling the phone onto his desk, kicked the chair and sat down. ‘Nicole!’ he repeated. ‘Get me the midday Lite! Get me Broome. And get me the lawyers.’ He glared at Wazir; glared at Home, Business and Travel. ‘Who’s seen today’s Evening Lite ? Anyway, where the fuck is Broome ?’ he muttered, rage subsiding into a colder, more dangerous, fury.

iii

IN ROW TWENTY-ONE of the business class cabin on the LA to London red-eye, Madison Magraw was stretched out – all five six of her – naked beneath her silver-grey monogrammed frequent flyer’s tracksuit, thoughtfully exercising her thigh muscles after an inflight massage, and letting the anxieties of her life as the self-appointed worldwide representative of Faust Writers & Artists Worldwide (FWAW) become subsumed in the insistent throb of the Rolls Royce engines. Safe in her seat, she could revel in the phone-free leisure of high altitude. Best of all, she could find a moment of equilibrium in the middle of a venture which she knew, in her secret heart, broke all the rules. If I had an agent like me, she told herself, I would advise me not to go. But that was the point: there really was no one quite like her.

It had been her mother’s fond hope (no one ever imagined that wild Rick Magraw had any interest in such matters) that the child she’d christened Anna Elizabeth Madison would go to Bryn Mawr, become an English teacher, and call herself Annabeth, a name redolent of Quaker furniture, the Founding Fathers, and apple pie. But Madison, as she preferred to be known, quickly grew up to detest apple pie and make jokes about the Founding Fathers. She never went near Bryn Mawr, instead heading west to UCLA, where she spent her English course, more or less stoned on Percocet, reading magazines and graphic novels to disguise her covert attention to the classics. From there, it was a short step to the Cimmerian zone of the movie business.

Agents in Hollywood are twilight animals who hunt in packs, but Madison Magraw was above and beyond such specimens. ‘They’re all in the same blue-black Armani suits, with undertakers’ ties’, she would explain to civilian friends, ‘they’re all called Adam, Tim, or Jed, and not one of them tells the truth’. She was not only smarter than these creatures, she was temperamentally a lone wolf. Most evenings, when the Adams, Jeds, and Tims, fluent Dude-speakers, were swinging at large through screenings and parties with their ‘Yo!, let me be your asshole’, she could be found reclining at home, barefoot in jeans and a shapeless Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt, with a pile of scripts next to her on the floor, and her BlackBerry within easy reach, for the swift execution of those impromptu moments of inspiration. Madison, who took pride in making her own calls, only came on the line when she had to, speaking in that urgent, low voice for which she was celebrated. Any actor or screenwriter who was represented by Madison Magraw could claim membership of a very select club.

Her solitary, even eccentric, professional demeanour set her apart from the gregarious subculture of the other agents at FWAW. Perhaps that was why old man Faust, founder and president-for-life of the agency, indulgently gave her so much latitude. Eric Faust, a refugee from South London, and the the dying days of the Ealing Studios, was a big man in all senses. He had dominated his business for fifty years, known everyone, and seen everything. Faust was renowned for his impatience. Once, during an airline strike, when Variety reported that he’d flown from Chicago to New York by way of Paris, Faust phoned to protest. ‘It was Frisco to New York’, he growled. ‘If it was Chicago, I woulda called a cab’. In his time, he had made, and lost, millions. Now he had reached the age when a man was entitled to hold forth. ‘Lemme tell you something,’ he would say, drawing theatrically on the unlighted cigar clamped between his quivering old lips, ‘I have to know who’s up, who’s down, who’s in, who’s out, who’s fucking who, and who’s in rehab’. Faust sat in his office from six am to sundown, taking calls, trading, gossiping, and fixing. The glassy corner of his Wilshire Boulevard office was crowded with a jumble of plastic toys – dinosaurs, teddy bears and wind-up dolls. And when Eric Faust needed to work off some extra frustration he would slip into a tracksuit and spar lightly with the punch ball next to his desk.

Faust had challenged Madison at her interview three years back, ‘So,’ he said, articulating every syllable of her name as he studied her resume, ‘are you’ – this was his most favourite question – ‘are you cat or dog, man or mouse ?’

‘Pass the cheese, sir’, she replied, in a moment of inspired lunacy, and was hired on the spot.

From that moment Madison could do no wrong. Occasionally, at movie dinners, after an injudicious cocktail, the old man would introduce his protégé to some studio head. ‘Meet Anna Elizabeth Madison Magraw’, he would say, savouring the open vowels, ‘my wonderful Maddie’. Faust’s affection made him possessive. Only that morning, they had argued about her week-end trip to Britain.

‘Anna Elizabeth,’ he complained, ‘you’re causing me stress.’

‘You like stress,’ teased Madison, ‘It’s good for you,’ she persisted, ‘to live life in the fast lane again.’

‘What are you suggesting ?’ The memory of his first heart attack was still warm in Faust’s imagination.

‘Just kidding.’ Madison had a way with difficult men, but it did not make her any happier. That was Madison all over: a martyr to the attractive woman’s low self-esteem. The madness of her fling – was that what it was ? – with Ned Broome made her feel hot and desirable and alive: but still she was vulnerable.

‘What the hell do you want with this guy ?’ Faust had growled. ‘Bring him back here if he’s so important. Let me kick his tyres. I’ll tell you if he cuts the mustard. Ten to one, he’s a son-in-law’.

‘A son-in-law ?’

‘Not what I had in mind’. Faust registered her dismay. ‘Just kidding, dearie. In our business we can always use an English accent.’

Up there now, above the clouds, Madison smiled at the memory. Her head was buzzing from two glasses of champagne and the soothing fingers of the Sri Lankan masseuse. In frank anticipation of more mind-loosening coition, she let her thoughts wander to the moments of sensual gratification she had already enjoyed with Ned Broome. If these romantic intimacies were private, everything else about Maddie Magraw’s love life seemed to be fair game. From the first, everyone had been excited that she had – as they put it – ‘snagged a Brit’. In the Hollywood circles in which she moved, a tallish, heterosexual Englishman with his own hair and teeth, and a proper job on a British newspaper, was quite a catch, if a risky one. ‘I’ll give it a year’, she told her sceptical women friends in Thai Partner Yoga, ‘and then I’ll take a rain check’. A superior smile. ‘You know, I’m in no hurry for the next stage.’ In her own parish, Madison Magraw was slightly famous. In the society of film-makers – editors, agents, journalists, opinion-makers and movie lawyers – in which she moved, Maddie was a byword for indiscretion, long nights, and fierce independence. To the single men of Hollywood, a narcissistic species, she was this fabled object of desire. To one and all, she was unfailingly polite, sympathetic, seductive even – and maddeningly elusive.

To herself, Madison was this veteran datee with a susceptibility for bizarre and inappropriate dalliances. The gruesome cast of her sexual home movie included the man who exclaimed ‘You’re a genius, and I’m your creative partner. You’ll never survive in Hollywood without me!’; the crazy ex who confessed ‘a brunette fetish’ and claimed to be Kafka’s great nephew; and the former marine from Los Feliz, obsessed with oral sex and kundalini yoga who told Madison her chakras were stuck. Indeed, it was a sorry catalogue, and she knew it was precisely because she had a problem with any commitment, and a phobia about ‘the next stage’, that she had found herself getting hooked up to the wrong man.

Robert Malone Jnr. was a corporate lawyer with ABC, conventionally attractive and unreliable, a rising executive who dated widely, and used the office to cover for his cheating ways. In hindsight, Madison told her closest girl-friends, the Bobby Malone debacle confirmed the rule that you should never sleep with a man whose butt was smaller than yours. Leaving his rear end to one side, in Madison’s eyes the yawning gap between promise and performance was particularly dreadful. Somehow she made contact with her old insouciance to convince herself this was a fine romance, when she knew in her heart it was no such thing. As a suitor, Bobby had made the right moves. He had telephoned with appropriate sentiments after their first night together. A ridiculously short time later, he had become, briefly, a plausible fiancé, and good husband material. Then things went haywire. He failed to return her calls and cancelled dinner plans without warning. Madison’s heart, so rarely bruised, was battered by the experience. ‘Let your inner child say goodbye to his inner child’ her shrink advised. Spend a weekend at a spa hotel in Palm Springs, he’d suggested, and take up kick boxing. So she dumped her fiancé and, slightly shell-shocked, proposed a regime of ‘he-tox’, her group’s term for sexual abstinence. She was on the brink of this self-imposed denial when she had met Ned Broome at this year’s fateful Sundance.

‘You know what Englishmen are like,’ warned Lori, who was suffering chaste adoration from a balding animator in Brentwood. But Madison had insisted. Beneath that shock of chestnut hair and behind those piercing china blue eyes was a romantic woman with a mind of her own. As many had discovered, it was a mind constantly in an argument with itself. Yes, she knew it was crazy to go to London. Against every scrap of wisdom and advice she had ever picked up, Madison Magraw told her circle that she found herself strangely attracted to the shifty-looking Englishman with his nose in a book. Sure as hell, it was not what she planned. Was she not resolved to live up to maternal expectations ? But then she went a little bit wild, as she was always wont to do.

‘I cannot believe you have allowed yourself to get into this situation’, said Tamara, who was always hard on her friends. ‘After Bobby , you were supposed to be in he-tox’.

‘Who can account for the vibrations of the open heart ?’ replied Maddie, calmly stroking her leg. ‘You know I worship at the shrine of true love.’ Damn it all: this funny-looking Englishman with the dodgy fingernails had penetrated her defences in a way that, if they could have witnessed it, would have mystified and impressed an extraordinary range of promising Angelino bachelors. Of all this Ned Broome was blissfully unaware. Defiantly single, resolutely unattached, and appealingly dangerous, he seemed to offer the perfect exit strategy from the Malone disaster. Bobby, she told Ned, quite soon after they had fallen into conversation, was ‘my starter fiancé. Don’t we all make mistakes ?’

For several weeks, it all went so well she started to wonder what the downside could be. It was not until her first credit card statement arrived that the first delirium began to morph into something more tangible, and she realised the cost of romancing a Brit. From almost every point of view, it was high time to bring this international affair to the tipping point, and see him on his home turf, in context. So, after three months of emails, late night telephone conversations, she decided that it was time to put the relationship to the test. She expressed it to her inner circle, in script writing terms, as ‘locating the second act adventure’. That was the raison d’etre of her trip to London. Here, Madison stretched out happily on her recliner and released another little moan of anticipation.

England ! Madison’s vision of Britain was derived from movies, plays and novels, and whatever she had picked up from the badly-dressed, snaggle-toothed English film-makers, flashing smiles that would not disgrace an Iron Age cave, who shambled through the offices of FWAW. It was, she conceded, a poor sample and an inadequate basis on which to arrive at a definitive verdict. In truth, she knew as much about Englishmen as chimpanzees: sometimes, she confided to Tamara and the others, they seemed oddly alike. Her girlfriends decided that ‘Maddie is crazy’, and then, recognising her determination, became full of advice about her conduct in London, much of it inspired by Jane Austen. Tamara said she should ‘live in the moment – but take care’. Zoe, on the lookout for Mr Knightly, said the airport was always a test. ‘You want him to meet you, of course, but don’t make it too big of a deal’.

‘Ugh,’ said Madison, signalling her disdain for airport arrival etiquette.

Lori wanted her to make certain he wasn’t married already; to which Madison replied that Ned Broome was the most unmarried man she had ever met, ‘apart, of course, from my ex-fiancé.’ Stacey, the most experienced, said it was good to go during Wimbledon. Madison listened to their advice with that wide, open smile for which she was famous and paid no attention. She had her own rules. She would speak at the ditsy little arts festival her new man seemed to be involved with. FWAW was internationally renowned. Her well-honed talk on ‘The Agent: parasite or patron ?’ was sure to go down well.

‘I’m going to have a good time’ she confided to Zoe. ‘I might even fall in love’.

iv.

BROOME, racing into the office in answer to the editor’s summons, knew that the first rule of life at The Examiner was that you could never count on Snagge. The editor was beyond the reach of quotidian calculation. Anticipate his rage and, likely as not, you were met with his immense charm. You just never knew where you were – which was pretty much what Snagge intended. ‘Batty as a bag of Malayan tree frogs’, was Harry Wazir’s verdict. So, when Broome reached Examiner House just after one o’clock, expecting to be dismissed on the spot, it came as no surprise to learn that Snagge was nowhere to be found. ‘I believe he went out to lunch with a minister’, said Nicole. ‘But he wants to see you on his return,’ she added, with menacing hauteur.

What does she know ? wondered Broome. Refusing to betray his anxieties in pointless further questioning, he crossed the floor to the newsdesk with a deep sense of anticlimax, and an even deeper invasion of fear. At least he did not have to endure the cross-examination of colleagues. Friday’s conference over, one or two sorry souls were eating grim canteen curries at their desks, but everyone else was at lunch. The Examiner’s brightly-lit screens glowed vacantly in deserted rows. Broome placed a Post-It note on Harry Wazir’s desk and, traversing Sport, Business and Travel, strolled over to the Literary section, a scruffy island of jiffybags, reference books, press releases, and pitch letters. “Dear Mr Broome, I enclose a copy of ‘The Fridge Man’s Travels’ about a round-the-world trip I made with a portable Bosch freezer... My true ambition is to raise global awareness about the effect of CFCs and the decline of endangered species...”

Today, his department was as empty as the others. Vicky, the part-time secretary, was collecting her kids from school; Sophie, his deputy, was seeing her therapist. Years ago, the Swot’s book department had boasted a full staff, and some influence. One of Broome’s predecessors had translated Montaigne. Now, however, his section had become reduced to ‘The Essay’, a bestseller list, some short reviews of a dozen new paperbacks, obscure cross references to the blogosphere, and an interview with whichever comedian or celebrity had a book out that week. Undeterred, an army of importunate poets and cartoonists sustained their ceaseless barrage: “Steve is a would-be writer, working on his first novel, the ups and downs of friendship with a talking duck....”

He picked up another, ‘My new collection, “Arrests of the Heart”, will be with you for review before the Summer Solstice. Please invite someone who is not a paid-up member of the Poetry Gang...’

Broome sat at his desk, wondering if he was too late for the canteen, contemplating the see-saw of the career literary. He stared gratefully at the note from Harry Wazir which said that when all was said and done, it was just a silly diary story, no? Perhaps. But there were still three angry messages from Stella Bentley on his office telephone, each one recapitulating the sentiments expressed on his home phone. He looked at the clock. It was now long past the lunchtime news-hour. How could he respond to her imperious summons before he had spoken to Snagge ? Why bother if he was about to be fired ? And then there was Maddie, en route for Heathrow, and the rendezvous of their dreams. She would be touching down in less than three hours. Heaps of unsolicited poetry drifted next to unanswered correspondence: ‘The central character of my new, unpublished novel writes that “The destruction of our world is upon us. Without a moral code, a point, to our lives, we are lost.” I know I can write...’ Was there no limit to the air of entitlement displayed by these people? ‘The work will fuse many genres and draw heavily on extracts from my as-yet unpublished novel, Corduroy Tears.’ Or to the self-inflation of would-be poets ? I have enclosed a sample of my verse. I started writing poems nearly six months ago and have written about three hundred. Friends, family, and strangers alike...

His browsing was interrupted by a looming woolly mammoth of a man, Raymond Dash, The Examiner motoring correspondent. ‘How’s it going, Ray ?’ Dash was one of three Swot staffers whom Ned knew to be writing a novel.

‘Great, thanks. Working on a new synopsis with a new agent who loves my work. She promises a deal by Frankfurt. Plus there’s loads of movie interest.’

‘Marvellous news.’ It was a source of irritation to Ned that Dash, who was barely on speaking terms with the English language, should be so full of quasi-literary expectations. ‘So how is the book ?’

‘Coming along nicely. I’ve been following your advice about Show Not Tell.’ ‘Murder your darlings’, said Broome, with irrational ferocity.

Dash looked startled. ‘Everything okay, old boy ?’

‘Don’t ask, Ray.’

‘I think it’s a winner, though I do say so.’ Dash had completed a number of unpublished manuscripts, invariably the adventures of a struggling motoring correspondent, separated from the woman of his dreams, to break into Formula One . ‘Amazing what you find when you dig deep. How’s yours ?’ They had spent time together in Copperfield’s discussing narrative technique. Broome, the published writer, was seen as an expert in a puzzling and treacherous field.

Broome groaned.

‘That bad, eh ?’ sympathised Dash. ‘Didn’t mean to intrude on private grief, old boy. Perhaps you should get a new agent. But I suppose you’re busy with that festival.’

‘Demented.’ Broome was grateful that Dash did not appear to have seen the Lite’s Page Six, or heard the news of his imminent disgrace.

Brooding on his predicament, his eye strayed to the proof pages of that week’s book section, now awaiting approval on his desk. Even here, in a world over which he had control, there were flaws. Apart from the relief of another deadline met, another book selection process completed, these drab xeroxes provided more anxiety than satisfaction. Splashed across the first page of book reviews was a bold headline: Craxton-on-Sea - The Literary Festival of the Year. Meet the Authors. Buy the Books. Experience the Dream.

‘Experience The Dream ?’ What on earth – ? Broome picked up the phone to the chief sub. No answer. Lunch was still in progress. He turned to his screen and tapped out a diplomatic email: in re: craxton. plse can you clarify ‘experience the dream’, and reference the play ? sorry. ned. He felt obliged to interfere. The Examiner’s sponsorship of this almost forgotten festival at the picture-postcard west country holiday resort was largely his doing.

At first, Snagge had complained about white, middle-class liberals, but then he discovered that Broome had another motive. The director of the festival, Jamie Nightingale was one of Ned’s oldest university friends, who badly needed a break. Broome, knew that running this festival was Nightingale’s last chance, and had done what he could. ‘The Top One Hundred Books of All Time’ was his idea, but he was infuriated to find his plans subordinated to his editor’s self-image as a Medici of extra-metropolitan culture. Snagge, prodding and probing with ceaseless questions, had discovered that sponsorship of the Craxton Literary Festival might inspire an experimental, all-male production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream drawing on the services of the local prep school, whose pupils happened to include his twin sons. Once he was committed to a thing, Snagge had to make it his own. As well as the play, there was The Examiner’s sponsorship of the festival’s trophy. This, pronounced Snagge, ‘is the sine qua non of any self-respecting arts event.’ He sketched a headline in the air. ‘The Examiner Prize for Literature. How good that sounds.’ But for what sort of literature ?

‘You and I, Ned, we celebrate blue skies, and the glass half full. The Examiner must go international’, he declared. Then someone else had proposed an award for local writers, whereupon Broome discovered that there were scarcely a dozen Craxton writers of any talent. Moreover, many of these were poets. Broome was wary of poets. He agreed with his editor that the local poet was the worst, especially if there were ten of them, and they all turned out to be the same person. Apparently, Kevin Williams, St John Peacock, Ruth Palley (also known as Merlin Silverwolf) and Andrew Creake, author of Fire in the Brain and Bodyworks, could all be filed under a single heading: faith healer Eve Flannery (the Teaching and Practice of Creative Writing, Craxton College), who ‘loves rambling, real ale, folk music and celebrating the spirit of place and the music of the sea’. So, in the end, there was to be no prize, but Broome was pleased to retain the initiative with his piece de resistance, uber-agent Madison Magraw, jetting in from Hollywood to add a dash of Californian glamour.

Madison ! Broome searched the internet one more time. Her flight was due to land in just over an hour. He should be getting out to the airport. But when was Snagge coming back ? And in what kind of mood ? Experience suggested a range of possibilities, none of them appealing. With a bit of luck, perhaps he could pacify the editor’s rage and still make it to the airport. It was going to be a close-run thing.

The phone on his desk rang. Stella ? Snagge ? Nicole ? Petronella ? Nightingale ? Pursued by the furies in his mind, Broome moved to another desk to call Directory Inquiries. ‘Heathrow airport’, he said, wondering what his beloved would say to a rendezvous with a phone message. It was hardly the ideal welcome to English shores.

v.

MADISON FELT HER high-flying jumbo tilt towards London and looked out of the window at the soft pink cloudscape of the approaching solstice. A few minutes later she looked again and saw a velvety midsummer carpet of astonishing green. Now it was time to freshen up and look her best on landing. Well, not of course her very best, but still contriving to make an entrance with some knock-out chic and more than a hint of the bedroom. She knew Broome could be impetuous – ‘Game for a laugh’ was his peculiar English way of putting it – and so could she. On their New Year meeting at Sundance, she had tried to pursue the etiquette of first dates, been teased out of her inhibitions and found herself celebrating a premature release from ‘he-tox’. Today, arriving in Britain, she wanted to look ready for any kind of madness. Madison checked herself in the compact mirror and began, swiftly, to effect those tiny adjustments that would make all the difference when Ned came towards her in the international arrivals lounge...

 

 

The object of these sentimental reflections, meanwhile, had realised that Heathrow was out of the question. As he waited on the phone to speak to a human being, further frustrated by a light orchestral arrangement of the Ode to Joy, Broome experienced a vertiginous plunge of introspection. People might say he was lucky, single and doubly blessed with good health and a good job, but he recognised that, deep down, he was just an over optimistic mid-lifer in search of true love. The cargo of hope that was about to touch down from the west might release him from that quest, but he feared she would turn out to be too good to be true, and probably too good for him. Anyway, how could he take delivery of his great expectations if he was trapped in the purgatory of the Swot’s long Friday afternoon ? Beethoven was interrupted mid-bar. ‘Choose from the following options’, commanded a voice, offering seven impossible choices. Broome pressed the hash key. More waiting. Then a jazz version of “My Way”.

He watched the Examiner’s sub-editors drifting back from lunch.

‘Passenger information,’ said a voice, a real voice.

Broome, snapping into focus, explained the nature of his predicament.

‘Has the party landed ?’

‘I just want to leave a message for my – my girlfriend.’

‘Information can only page the party once they are in the terminal building.’

‘Can’t I leave a message ?’

‘You can call back,’ the voice displayed no emotion, ‘when the party has landed.’

‘You mean I can only leave a message when it’s too late to be useful.’

‘Thank you, sir. Have a nice day.’

Broome put the phone down, defeated. More than ever, he felt trapped. Madison was flying inexorably towards London, but he could not meet her. Snagge was returning inexorably to his desk, but he was unavailable.

To kill time, he returned Petsie Straw’s call. On Friday afternoon, there was small chance she would be at her desk, and indeed she was not. Gleefully, he left a message and – stretching the truth again – claimed he looked forward to delivering part of the first draft of How To Fly once the Craxton Festival was over.

‘Ned’. One of the subs, part of the pod known as Snap, Crackle and Pop, was standing by his desk with a page proof. ‘I hear you don’t like “Experience The Dream”. I suppose you do know it’s part of the marketing strategy ?’

‘Yes, of course, Pop,’ he lied. Just then, the Craxton Festival seemed faraway and unimportant. ‘Well, never mind,’ he added absently, ‘Let it go.’ The sub shrugged, and disappeared.

More people were drifting back from lunch. Broome, stretching with frustration, found himself transmitting a sequence of massive yawns to his colleagues across the news room. Was it, Broome wondered, possible to send a yawn around the world in a series of sympathetic reflexes ? Perhaps he should write a short story about it: the Yawn. What would Petsie say if, instead of his novel, he gave her a short, but perfect, tale about a man broadcasting profound, zeitgeisty ennuie ?

He returned to his present predicament. Friday’s post-prandial torpor was being replaced by the fever of approaching deadlines, and little eruptions of merriment as the subs admired their punning headlines. Still no sign of Snagge. Broome imagined himself at Heathrow surrounded by members of the human race in various states of uncomplicated joy. Husbands embracing wives. Old friends greeting other old friends. Grandparents hugging grandkids. Teenage lovers French kissing as if there was no tomorrow. Soon there would be that happy message: Baggage in Hall.

Ned looked about him wildly. Where was he ? Trapped at his desk, waiting for Snagge. Now here was Nicole, standing in front of him. ‘The editor has been delayed,’ she said, ‘but he sends his compliments, and looks forward to meeting later this afternoon.’

Ned’s mobile phone was pulsating. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

‘Honey !’ There was no mistaking the intonation. ‘So where are you ?’

‘Maddie ? Is that – ? Hi !’ Broome waved ineffectually at Nicole, in a hopeless mime of personal crisis. Madison was standing in a noisy arrivals concourse, yelling something about tail winds and immigration lines.

‘Maddie ! Hi, hi, hi ! Darling !’ How could he begin to explain ? ‘Where did you spring from ?’

‘Well – strangest sensation – I’m early for once. Aren’t you pleased to hear from me ?’

‘Of course – it’s – it’s fantastic. Welcome to London.’

‘Where are you ?’

‘I’m still at the office.’ Nicole was writing the words STELLA BENTLEY on a scrap of paper and shoving it under his nose.

‘You are what ?’ There was disbelief in Madison’s expression, mixed with incredulity, and seasoned with astonishment. ‘What the f – ?’ She stopped herself and shouted something about ‘Sam in the office’ having left a message. Broome attempted to explain about the complex logic of Passenger Information, but it was no good. Now he was stammering ‘I - I - I - have been unavoidably detained.’ He gestured hopelessly at Nicole, who was standing over him in her best Broadmoor manner.

‘Unavoidably.’ Madison’s annoyance was morphing into dismay. ‘Of course.’ There was the sound of a weary international traveller wrestling with a suitcase. ‘Well, if you’re interested, I’m at the airport and now – once I’ve found my limo – I’ll be on my way downtown, wherever the hell that is.’

‘Can I ? – darling, I – ’Broome broke off to remonstrate with Nicole, who was now leafing through his appointments diary.

‘Everyone said I had to be ready for anything.’ Madison was half speaking to herself, and brightly suppressing her disappointment. ‘This is England, right ?’ So far, in the few minutes she had spent on British soil, Madison was not over-impressed by her prospective home. Compared to Los Angeles, everyone looked so unwell and so badly dressed. The woman at the immigration desk had been aggressive and unintelligible, and right now there was nary a limousine in sight. She made another mental note to fire her assistant Sam, and began to struggle towards the taxi line. At the other end of the phone Ned had an involved conversation about someone called Stella with whom, apparently – no deception here ! – he had spent last night. This Stella had not, apparently, had a good time. She, or someone close to her, was now arguing with Broome and, apparently, with a good deal more justification. Ned, oblivious to the impression he was making, was helplessly repeating. ‘I’ll call her. I promise I’ll call her.’

When he came back to her, Madison challenged him sweetly. ‘Who’s Stella ?’

‘Oh – ’ Ned passed a hand over his eyes, grateful that this was not a face to face conversation. This was turning into an incredibly trying day. ‘It’s a long story.’

Madison, who had once spent too much time in a weekly screenwriting seminar, was not to be bamboozled by the logic of narrative. ‘So –, give me the bad news,’ she went on briskly. ‘You’re seeing someone else.’

Broome was in despair. ‘Maddie, darling.’ It was impossible to argue this point over the phone. ‘How can you think such a thing ?’ He was embarrassingly aware that Nicole was drinking this all in with relish. ‘Stella is a newscaster. A famous one. For reasons too complex and stupid to go into, she thinks I sold gossip about her to a rival newspaper’.

‘Did you ?’ Madison was impressed. This was the British journalism she had read about in books.

‘I thought I was speaking off the record.’

‘And were you ?’

‘As it turns out, no.’ He took a deep breath, glaring at Nicole. ‘So I’m probably going to get fired tonight.’

‘Then what you need, sweetheart, is a good lawyer.’

‘I didn’t know you were a lawyer.’

‘Well...’ She gave a mischievous laugh. ‘My friends say I know how to kick ass.’ Optimism was Madison’s default position. ‘I’ll be your fearless representative.’

‘You’ve not met Snagge. Remember ? I’ve told you how he hates agents and lawyers.’

‘He won’t hate me.’ A taxi pulled up to the rank. ‘Here’s a cab. I’ll come see him.’

‘Don’t you think you should check in to your hotel first ?’

Outside the Arrivals concourse, Madison looked around her in wonder at this brave new world. What American male would put his sex-life before his career ? ‘I’d forgotten how romantic you are, honey.’ She became aware of muffled shouting from the front of the cab. ‘The driver wants to know where I’m going.’

Broome gave her the name of the hotel, and began to improvise. ‘There’ll be champagne and roses in your room by the time you arrive.’

‘What about this Stella person ?’

‘What about her ?’

‘I just know there’s something you haven’t told me.’

Broome protested his innocence again. ‘Give me half an hour with Snagge – with my editor – and I’ll be with you,’ he said. He put the phone down, and stared hard at Nicole. ‘Is there nothing you can do to get me into Snagge’s office before the leader conference ?’

‘Let’s see,’ said Nicole, relishing her power. ‘There’s a six o’clock I can probably shift. Don said that yours would be a short meeting,’ she added with sinister glee.

vi.

SNAGGE, WHO PREFERRED TO SNEAK into the newspaper by the fire exit, avoiding the strain of light conversation with his staff, sat in the editor’s chair lost in silent contemplation of The Examiner at work beyond the glass walls of his office.

A more reflective man than many realised, he brooded on the Page Six gossip in the Evening Lite, quelling his enraged desire to shed blood, and reluctantly located his innate tolerance. A quasi-Socratic internal dialogue ensued in which the spirit of fair play forced him to concede that, by Swot standards, Broome’s lapse of judgement was scarcely more than embarrassing. Snagge’s pride had taken a hit, but no one had even broken the law. Rule one: no one died. Setting aside his all-important rules, he reviewed the roll-call of Examiner miscreants. Next to Sebastian (sex with a waiter in the executive dining-room, captured on CCTV) or Patrick (internet child-porn) or Trevor (a Saturday night punch-up in which the police were called) or Garry (bigamy), the nocturnal triviality of Broome’s loose lips would soon be lost in the slipstream of the 24-hour news cycle. Forgive and forget, said fair play. You know how easy it is to be stitched up by a tabloid gossip columnist.

Snagge wrestled with his pride. Of course it was enraging to have been put in this ludicrous situation vis a vis Stella Bentley, but at least he could punish his literary editor with an appropriate penance. When all was said and done, he was inclined to favour Ned Broome. Besides, in sparing him, he could confound expectations and amuse himself with some poetic retribution. Tossing the Evening Lite aside, Snagge turned his attention to another source of annoyance, also attributable to Broome, the Craxton Literary Festival.

His first misgivings about The Examiner’s sponsorship were not entirely based on his loathing for poets and novelists, justifiable as that might be. He began to leaf through the Festival’s schedule once more. Marketing had done a good job. There was no shortage of bores, poseurs and charlatans (obscure blokes with beards trying to scratch a living on Arts Council grants) on whom to fasten his irritation with contemporary culture. And then – hoy ! – there it was: his brain-child. “An all-male production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in an original version that recalls the glory days of the great Globe itself”.

Snagge frowned. In his final year at university, Donald Smythson-Snagge (as he was then) had cast himself as Bottom the Weaver in an experimental student production. It was many years since he had forsaken greasepaint and tights for newsprint and deadlines, but the fire of exhibitionism still smouldered within, at war with his deepest fear of becoming conventional and middle-aged. Unknown to many, it was his habit, on mid-week evenings, to slip away to productions of Shakespeare, his first love. For Snagge, on these nights, Shakespeare was not merely flourishing in his midst, he was also a mentor and friend.

‘When my cue comes, call me and I will answer’.

If Nicole had come in that moment she would have found the editor absently repeating his lines with the wistful air of one who knows that the best he can now hope for is Polonius or Prospero. ‘The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.’

Snagge’s Dream was still alive in his imagination. To read in some crappy brochure that the Craxton Literary Festival – his literary festival – was mounting a production without giving him a role, found him dismayed, and even bereft. The main thing, he reflected wistfully, was that his two boys were involved. But even here, in the springtime of paternal pride, there were shadows of regret. Snagge twisted the festival brochure in his fingers. If he was candid, these regrets only accounted for the front page of his irritation with the event. Further back, was a second source of annoyance he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge – his ex-wife. On the reverse of the festival brochure was a simple map: How To Get There. Just to glance at those co-ordinates was to revisit an ocean of fathomless emotional complexity.

Craxton-on-Sea was in the west country. But what this simple, even cretinous, map did not so much as hint at was the town’s fraught propinquity to the Mellings – Melling Barley, Melling Magna and Parva, and Lower Melling. Obscure in every way, this little cluster of medieval hamlets concealed the Grange, home of Doreen Snagge, the ‘Down Under Diva’ of page six fame. People he trusted had urged him not to take his wife through the courts. Settle where you can, they said. She’ll eat you alive, or spill your secrets in kiss ‘n’ tell. He had not listened. In the end, m’learned friends had come up with a Pyrrhic victory. Rueful and repentant, he had to admit that he had lost an arm and a leg, and yet still she was somehow part of his life.

Now that their divorce was finally pending, and her behaviour could no longer influence the outcome, Doreen was exposing Snagge to the tropical gamut of her feelings. In their marriage, she had relied on pharmaceuticals to moderate her mood swings. Now, Doreen told everyone that she was a new, and independent, woman, liberated from the old ways. Snagge was unmoved by this nuisance: it was like the weather. Clear skies always followed the storms. He also cultivated indifference to his ex-wife’s moods. For her part, Doreen appeared untroubled by Snagge’s heroic disinterest. She was too highly strung to locate the mundane chord of emotional unease in the thunderous arpeggio of her daily life. Perhaps, some said, it was that she recognised, in his unpredictable waywardness, someone as potentially mad as herself. The truth was that, as well as recognising a kindred spirit, Doreen was still a little bit in love with her ex. That was a widely held view. What else could explain the persistence with which Doreen remained in Snagge’s life ? She carried on as though their separation had never happened. Rich, headstrong and erratic, she remained capable of bursting into the editor’s world at any time.

Recently, however, Snagge had noticed that Doreen was much less present in his life. The explanation was not slow in coming. Word reached him that Doreen had taken up with an Irish poet, and was in love. If there was one thing worse than Doreen’s attentions, it was the thought that he had been supplanted by a poet, worst of all a poet whose life and work seemed beyond the reach of Google.

Snagge threw the brochure aside and kicked the filing cabinet. Was it possible that The Examiner’s advertising department had chosen Craxton-on-Sea simply to wind him up ? How could the marketing teams on the fifth floor have any inkling of their boss’s exorbitant divorce settlement (house, car and air-miles for her; maintenance, alimony, and legal costs for him) ? Just thinking of the judge made him angry. He kicked the cabinet again, and then again, sending a bewigged windbag of legal pomposity flying into long-overdue oblivion.

Nicole, in the outer office, heard the familiar thuds and emailed a typical Friday note to The Examiner’s leader writers, who were waiting to debate contemporary affairs in the spirit of rhino hunters cornering a rogue male with insufficient tranquillisers.

Leader conference will be at 6.30.

Experience taught that the issues of the week would be analysed better if Snagge was not raging at emotional matters he did not understand, for example Doreen.

Buried deep in Snagge’s irritation at the Craxton festival was the memory that his ex had a date to visit him in the office that very evening. And he was sure that she was going to bring up the matter of the Irish poet whose name was always escaping him. McSweeney ? O’Hagan ? O’Brien ? Snagge could not remember, but what did he care ? Now here was Nicole with an expression that had ‘Doreen Snagge’ written all over it.

‘Mrs S says she has to see you before seven. She sends her apologies, but she has an appointment with the archbishop’.

‘Perhaps she should take holy orders,’ replied Snagge with sarcasm. ‘I hear they’re short of women bishops. She’d look good in purple’. A thought came to him, and he shouted towards the open door of his first deputy’s office, adjoining his own. ‘Hey, Jim - how about something fluffy on Church Fashions ?’

‘Yesterday you wanted gritty, right ?

‘Well, what about the grittier end of fluffy ?’

‘Yes-and-no, Don,’ said Jim, picking up the phone to News and Comment.

‘Speaking of atonement, Nicole,’ yelled Snagge. ‘Where’s our reprobate literary editor ?’

‘He’s waiting right outside, Don.’

‘Excellent news. And speaking of frigging books, I have to say that I am also in a very bad mood about the umlaut. The Swot is an English newspaper – repeat, an English newspaper – and should avoid foreign accents, except where it is obvious nonsense not to have an accent.’

‘You were doing a memo, Don, on umlauts and cedillas.’

‘So I was.’ Snagge stood up with an indefinable majesty, feeling calmer. ‘So I was. Let’s get Broome in here to discuss English usage. No finer subject for a Friday evening. Jim...’ He poked his head into the adjoining office, ‘Jim. A good idea to commission some fairly substantial musings on English today. Let’s go off piste and get some assorted bores to go on at interminable length about the Norman Conquest.’ He yawned theatrically, and mimed a superb cover drive. ‘God, I hate the French.’

vii

BROOME, MEANWHILE, WAS languishing on the fateful leather sofa outside Snagge’s office, fretting about Madison, and imagining the worst. Across the floor in Sport, there was a small detonation of hilarity as Steve (a.k.a. ‘Sheep’) Jenkins the sports editor opened the email programmed to fill his screen with DOWNLOADING GAY PORN in giant flashing red and black letters. This message had been bouncing backwards and forwards between several desks for some days, sponsoring the kind of unbridled joy that gave Examiner journalists something to talk about in Copperfield’s at the end of the day. Broome heard the merriment, but he did not smile. Eventually, Nicole said ‘You can go in now’, in the tone of one pronouncing summary execution.

‘What bloody man is that ?’ exclaimed Snagge as Ned came in. ‘He can report as seemeth by his plight of the revolt the newest state.’

Ned was relieved to find that Snagge was in Shakespeare mode. ‘Hi Don’, he began. ‘You wanted me ?’

‘Ned! Ned! Come in, mate. Come in. Great result last night. Well done.’ Snagge waved airily at the offending edition of The Evening Lite, lying on the table between them. ‘You saw that absurd story, I suppose ? We all love gossip, of course, but there must be a grain, a scintilla, of truth to it, no ?’

‘I’m really, really, sorry, Don.’ Broome responded, in total contrition mode. ‘That snake Horris-Lane stitched me up’

Snagge, defying expectation, affected incomprehension. ‘Ned, old fruit. You don’t think, do you, that I blame you for a minute ?’ He picked up the paper, leafing briskly through its pages. ‘Stella Bentley is a stupid cow. A stupid, ugly, frigid, self-centred cow’. He threw the paper aside. ‘You were absolutely right – if it was you – and I rather hope it was – to express your honest dismay at her obsession with my divorce and her shocking – shocking – ignorance of basic facts. What could be more important than the PEN quiz ? What’s more important than a Swot triumph ? Our honour was at stake, and she failed miserably. Worse, she embarrassed me. Remember rule one: (Snagge liked to quote his rules) No one died. Don’t give it another thought. But,’ he added wickedly, ‘prepare to grasp the nettle of atonement.’

Ned did not like the sound of this. ‘She’s been ringing every half hour,’ he said, hoping to imply commitment.’What should I say ?’

‘She’s been on my case, too’, said Snagge proudly. ‘Apparently, I was wounded by her rage, God knows why.’ He waved dismissively at the evening paper. ‘And that, according to lovely Mrs B, is my revenge.’ He snorted. ‘As if I couldn’t think of a better way to get even.’ He began to re-arrange his desk. ‘The idea that I should want to exchange Doreen for Stella - the idea ! Don’t worry, Nedward, old bean. You and I will stand firm.’ He put on his Shakespeare expression. ‘“O most pernicious woman! Villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!”’

Inwardly, Ned gave thanks for his editor’s support. It had been a close shave but once again, as on so many occasions in the past, Snagge had come through. His grudging affection for Broome was the key to their relationship. He realised the editor was still speaking, ‘Ignore the phone. Keep your head down. Say nothing and don’t worry about a thing. I fixed Stella Bentley.’

‘You what ?’

‘I just said: I spoke to her an hour ago.’ A Machiavellian look came into Snagge’s face, a familiar expression that Ned had come to distrust. ‘We enjoyed a long and, I must say, strangely absorbing talk. I pointed out that it was quite impossible for you to have said those things that were attributed to you.’

‘Impossible ?’

‘Of course. As chairman of the Craxton Literary Festival, an event sponsored by The Examiner, I said it was impossible that you would have been so indiscreet about one of your principal speakers.’

‘My what ?’

‘Hasn’t Stella Bentley just published some kind of autobiography, Beyond the Box, or some such nonsense ?’

‘Serialised on Radio Four. We reviewed it last week. My Friends the Royals. My Battle with Bulimia. How I Brought Peace to Gaza. That sort of thing.’.

‘So then,’ declared Snagge, triumphant. ‘Nothing could be more natural than a promotional visit to the Craxton Festival as the guest of The Examiner.’

‘But – but – ?’

‘But me no buts, Ned. Don’t tell me you have no slots available’. For one who had blithely delegated The Examiner’s sponsorship of the event, Snagge seemed surprisingly on top of the details. ‘Make La Bentley the guest of honour, old fruit, and you won’t hear another squeak out of her.’ He winked wickedly. ‘Or me. You’ll just have to tell that American girlfriend of yours that she’s not top of the bill, OK ?’ He waved the books’ page proofs at his literary editor. ‘I’m sure she’ll be happy to – ah – “experience the dream” in between the sheets at the Hotel Splendide. My final word of advice.’

In the ante-room the editor’s office, Broome could see with relief that another visitor was arriving. ‘What’s that, Don ?’

‘Don’t ever get married.’

Nicole put her head round the door. ‘Mrs Snagge to see you, Don.’

‘Crikey ! Is she here already ?’ Doreen’s graduation to the role of ex had not diminished her capacity to induce panic and irritation. ‘Ned, Ned, please. Go out and head her off.’

‘But we’ve never met.’

It was too late. A strikingly tall, expensively dressed forty-something woman with a mane of golden hair and the imperious demeanour of one used to getting her own way, stepped into the doorway. Snagge did his best. He was, after all, on home turf.

‘Dolly !’

‘Don, darling !’

viii

It is essential to this tale that the first Mrs Snagge should have been accompanied by a small brown dog, a cross-looking mutt named Roy. Without the dog, Broome might have made his excuses and left. As it was, he froze. Broome did not like dogs. Ever since he had been bitten to the bone by Snowy, a vicious white terrier, at the age of seven, he had learned to loathe dogs, demanding, noisy, smelly, dirty creatures who, given half a chance, would simply exercise their deepest instinct to eat him alive. If they were man’s best friend, he often thought, the cliche spoke badly of mankind in general. Cats, on the other hand, were silent, self-sufficient companions who made no fuss. Predictably, the dog came towards him, growling. Trapped somewhere between the animal, Snagge and the editor’s ex-wife, Broome might have been turned to stone.

‘Have you met our splendid literary editor ?’ said Snagge, disentangling himself from his ex-wife’s embrace.

The Down-Under Diva looked at the frozen Broome with new interest. ‘The literary editor, eh ?’ She repeated the description in a ruminative and, it seemed to Ned, slightly incredulous, tone.

‘So you know all about books and writers, huh ?’ She examined him critically. ‘Ever heard of a poet called Thomas O’Malley ?’

Broome hesitated. It was the curse of his job that he was supposed to answer all such questions with authority and distinction. ‘Er, well...’

‘What I need to know is – ’ Doreen Snagge was in a hurry, as usual. ‘Is he any good ?’

Broome stared at Snagge, who rolled his eyes theatrically, and mimed the end of civilisation. ‘Who ?’

‘Thomas – Devlin – O’Malley!’ Like her ex-husband, the first Mrs Snagge was accustomed to answers. ‘Is he – is he any good ?’

‘Well, I – er, I could find out.’ With a sinking heart Ned was aware that Snagge’s interest was piqued. Doreen had unwittingly revived the prize problem, the conundrum Broome had failed to resolve. The unfulfilled longing to award something to someone, preferably on television, still needled Snagge’s ambitions to be a renaissance patron. Broome knew that when the editor turned to his former wife with a charming smile, and said ‘I’m so glad to see you’ve become interested in poetry, my dear,’ he was half a haiku away from asking her to sponsor an Examiner literary cup.

‘I’m not,’ replied Doreen. She was enjoying Snagge’s anguished expression. ‘To be more accurate,’ she went on, ‘I’ve become rather interested in poets.’

‘Well, that’s what I was told,’ muttered Snagge, in the tone of one who had heard it all before.

‘Or to be brutally precise,’ continued Mrs Snagge, ‘in Thomas Devlin O’Malley, also known as the bard of Ballinasloe. Here,’ she thrust a page of typescript at Broome. ‘What do you think ?’ He took the folio with appropriate solemnity.

I have trodden lightly with the Lion,

And also with the Lamb,

I am become

The He that breaks the Staff of Life.

‘Um’, he began, hoping to express the nuances of the metropolitan verdict.

Doreen fixed Snagge and his literary editor with an expression of careless disdain. ‘I need to know,’ she said, ‘because my friend the bard has been talking about what he calls “solstice nuptials”.’

As The Examiner’s first copy deadlines approached on Friday night, Snagge usually had the attention span of a three-year-old child, or, as Harry Wazir sometimes liked to put it, the Sumatran marmoset. But now he was listening.

‘He what ?’

‘As you are probably not aware,’ said Mrs Snagge, twisting the knife, ‘I am having a party at home this weekend in Craxton. It’s supposed to be the Melling Barley midsummer ball, but something tells me that it might be the occasion for a more significant announcement.’

While Snagge gurgled with inarticulate astonishment, Broome snapped to attention. ‘Craxton ?’, he said, wondering if he could somehow appease this attractive Australian. ‘That’s where I’m going tomorrow’.

‘What on earth could you be doing in Craxton-on-Sea ?’ Doreen looked to him in astonishment. ‘You don’t mean that idiotic literary festival ?’

Snagge turned to Broome. ‘As you doubtless know, Melling Barley is just ten minutes’ drive from Craxton town centre.’

‘It is, isn’t it ?’ Mrs Snagge, rarely without an agenda, was obviously planning her next move.

‘If – if you like,’ said Broome, recklessly wondering if this would recommend him to the editor, ‘I suppose I could make some enquiries – discreet enquiries – into the poet – while I’m there.’

Mrs Snagge looked at him with new attention. ‘ Well now, there’s a thought.’ A mischievous expression crossed her features. ‘I had been planning to talk to my very good friend Mister Ferris.’

Snagge started, from somewhere deep in the Third Circle.

‘Tony Ferris ?’ For the editor even to utter that name was painful. The Examiner’s chief executive might fret about many things, but the name ‘Ferris’ was calculated to rouse his worst fears and recall some of the editor’s darkest hours.

‘Yes, dearest, your troublesome former colleague Anthony Ferris, but... I find I have changed my mind, a woman’s prerogative, right ? This excellent young man has come to my assistance instead.’

Snagge, with the doomed expression of a man fated to examine divorce papers, muttered ‘I say we will have no more marriages’, and ushered Broome past the dog and towards the door. ‘Mrs Snagge and I have things to discuss,’ he said, ‘and you’ll be wanting to tell your American goddess about her diminished responsibilities.’

ix.

NED DEPARTED EXAMINER HOUSE, leaving Haroun and his colleagues to cut and paste their prose for the Swot’s next edition, with reluctant steps. His exit from the newsroom owed something to condemned men, but was also reminiscent of the striker’s fateful rendezvous with the penalty kick. The listless wave that flagged down a stray Docklands taxi was hardly the zestful and commanding signal of a man fired by romantic anticipation, more the gesture of one with too much on his mind. He might gratefully breathe the warm summer evening air, but he did not do so with any relief.

From combat experience, Broome knew that confronting big issues with the opposite sex was his Achilles’ Heel. Even when his own emotions were not at stake, and he was, say, having to tell a poet that her work would not suit his section, his demeanour became furtive, shifty and finally mendacious. He might try a joke, but it would fall flat. Temperamentally, he preferred to let sleeping dogs lie. The well-read mind, he sometimes observed in moments of stress, is also the reflective, even passive, mind. Snagge had once upbraided him with ‘Not every ruminant is a cow, Ned. Be a bull, for Christ’s sake.’ But there it was: bullishness was not in his nature. In truth, he was ill-equipped to tell Madison Magraw that her address to the Craxton Festival had been deferred in favour of ‘An Audience with Stella Bentley.’ He was still puzzling over the nuances of his conflict with a celebrity nemesis when the taxi pulled up outside Madison’s hotel. In a trance of indecision, he made his way towards the front desk.

Stella’s was a name he could hardly bring himself to articulate, even in the privacy of his innermost thoughts, but at least the fearsome broadcaster had not prevailed. At least, he was still on the staff of The Examiner; he still enjoyed the support of its editor, and his lupine debts were still being kept at bay by the Swot’s finance department. Climbing thoughtfully up the steps to Madison’s hotel, musing on his narrow escape from Snagge’s rage, he reckoned that, to get out of the fix he was in with his new girlfriend, perhaps he should try a delaying strategy, and break the news about the lecture gently. But first – even more alarming – he was going to have to explain why he had missed her arrival. Thanks to his recent reprieve he could not even appeal to her sympathy.

‘So there you are at last,’ said a familiar voice, radiant with magnanimity.

He spun round. Maddie was sitting alone in an alcove with a copy of last week’s Examiner, a heart-stopping picture of desirability. Ned saw at once that she had checked in and taken a shower, apparently recovering her equanimity. As they embraced, he remembered how disarmingly slight and fragile she was in his arms. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’m ready.’

This was more like it, the passport to the bedroom he had dreamed about. ‘Upstairs ?’ he said hopefully, but when he tried to kiss her again, she drew back, teasing but determined.

‘I was thinking of the seaside,’ said Madison. ‘The concierge says it will be light for hours. We can drive through the twilight, talking about love and literature.’

‘To the seaside ?’

‘I have a talk to give, remember ?’

‘Yes, I know. But you see – ’ His inner vision of the hotel bedroom shrivelled, and was replaced by horrible practicalities.

‘What ?’

‘Er...’ Shouldn’t he grab her, and drag her into his cave like a real man ? ‘You see...’

‘What do I see ?’

‘Craxton’s quite a drive. And you’ve had a long flight. If we stay – ’

‘We’ve only got the week-end. I want to live a little.’

‘Well...’ Ned hesitated. Where was his delaying strategy now ?

Madison could no longer repress her misgivings about this trip. ‘So who’s Stella ?’

‘Stella ? I told you. She’s a broadcaster who – right now – wants to kill me.’

‘That might make two of us.’

‘Maddie ! I explained, didn’t I ?’

‘Did you ?’

‘Darling.’ He attempted an embrace, without success. ‘Let’s have the night here. We can leave after breakfast – ’ he ploughed on towards oblivion ‘ – and still get there after lunch.’

‘After lunch ?’

For weeks, Madison had exchanged ironic banter with her friends about the merrie English scene in which she would be entertained to lunch by the city fathers before making a royal progress to a podium in the Town Hall.

‘Well, Craxton’s fairly informal you know. I’m sure it wouldn’t matter if we got there just before the event.’

‘Fairly informal ?’ she echoed coldly. Madison was expecting an audience of several hundred. ‘How many people are coming ?’

‘Um. Oh, for a sleepy, out of the way place like Craxton, you might be lucky to get fifty.’

‘Fifty !’

‘Or even twenty-five.’

‘Twenty-five !’ Madison’s expression was incredulous.

‘I once addressed an audience of just five, including my aunt. If the weather’s good, and especially if – ’

‘Especially if what ?’ Now she was glaring at him. Here was the devious Brit her friends had warned her about.

‘Especially if the festival organisers – ‘ he gulped ‘– have decided to reorganise the schedule at the last minute.’

‘Festival organisers! Re-organise the schedule?’ Madison pulled away from him, marching towards the hotel elevator. ‘You are the goddamn festival organiser. You and your ridiculous newspaper. What are you telling me ?’

‘It’s only a contingency plan, darling. A change in the running order. They like to keep things flexible.’

‘Very funny.’ She pressed on, majestic with fury. ‘Like you, I prefer to keep things flexible, too. And provisional. And – and...’ At this point Broome’s mobile phone began to ring. He saw that it was Snagge calling, and killed it. While he stammered something about ‘unforeseen’, and ‘difficulties’ and ‘scheduling’, Madison was finding her agent’s voice, that tone for which, in Hollywood circles, she was renowned.

Broome made one last, hopeless appeal. ‘Maddie – wait!’

‘No, Ned, no.’ For the first time in their short relationship, Broome noted, Madison’s voice was rising an octave. ‘On my schedule – the one you emailed the day before yesterday – it says I’m due to speak in Craxton Town Hall at two o’clock tomorrow. And that’s precisely what I intend to do. I have not just flown eight thousand miles to address three men and a goat. But first I have to get a good night’s rest. So now – ’ She stood, glaring at Broome with a confused mixture of tears (the treachery of the man) and smiles (the absurdity of her situation). ‘I am going to bed. Alone. Then I will travel – on my own – to the festival. And I’d advise you to tell the organisers to have a car – and a driver – waiting for me at the train station.’

Broome’s phone rang again. It was Snagge.

‘Maddie – I have to take this. It’s my editor – Hello – Don – hi – yes?’

‘Hey, Nedward. How’s Aphrodite ?’

‘How’s what ?’

‘Have you told her ?’

‘Oh, I see – I was just – yes – I’m in the middle of telling – ’

‘And how’s she taking it ?’

Broome watched his newly arrived, newly alienated, girlfriend stalking across the hotel foyer towards the elevator. ‘Not too brilliantly, in fact, Don.’

‘Don’t give it a thought’, said Snagge. ‘Best to see them angry.’

‘What are you talking about ?’

‘Women,’ said Snagge definitively. ‘Start with the inevitable hostilities, hoe the rocky road to reconciliation, and then live happily ever after. That’s my philosophy.’

‘But you’re getting divorced,’ objected Broome.

‘Exactly,’ repeated Snagge. ‘Happily ever after.’

Broome, returning to the hotel foyer, wondered in sudden desperation, how he was supposed to prosecute the pursuit of happiness without Madison Magraw.