At last

I am pleased to be able to inform you, dear readers, that all those years of tears and traumas are officially at an end. AGC is to be published in March 2009.

Let me record for posterity the past 24 hours.

11.00: Stumble about the changing rooms of various clothing emporiums wondering what one should wear for a first meeting with publishers, cursing ricotta texture of thighs and wondering how exactly I got those bruises.

2.15: Give up, eat egg sandwich and return home, resolving to borrow clothes from fashion-forward friend for whom I am catsitting.

2.30: Phonecall from agent requesting author photo. I tell her I haven’t got any. She says ‘aren’t there some nice ones of you in Tuscany?’ I reply bleakly that I am drunk in all of them. She thinks I am joking.

2.45: Frenzied emailing to friends requesting photos. They kindly oblige. I am drunk in all of them.

4.00: Emergency trip to reflexologist who tells me about a new healing technique called breast massage.

4.10: Pass out under her expert hands.

19.00: Shrink appointment. Bang on about body image issues for the whole hour.

22.00: Emergency photo-session with the endlessly patient Beth. She handles me beautifully. Struggle with intermittent flash. End up jumping in and out of light on doorstep to keep it on long enough for her to take snaps.

Midnight: Cab back to catsitting house. Taxi driver says ‘You look tired. Have you been with your boyfriend. Eh? Eh?’ I tell him no. He says ‘How can I get more intimate with you?’

24.15: Extricate myself from cab, paying needlessly large tip to get rid of him.

24.30: Smoke fag and drink small sherry in garden.

1.00: Attempt sleep. Fail.

7.00: Wake to find that cat has left dead mouse outside my bedroom door. Not sure whether or not this is meant as gift or punishment but suspect the latter.

7.10: Retch violently in sink.

9.30: Shrug on mahvellous cream Marc Jacobs jacket over black frock. Feel almost like Jackie Collins.

9.45: Brief identity crisis.

11.00: Meeting with publishers in fabulous Holland Park mansion. Orchids everywhere. Books in profusion. Ushered into a room by editor, sweating lightly (me not her). Almost trip over chair. Blush. Blush deeper as eight other people arrive, from the big boss to the PR person. They all say incredibly nice things about the book. We talk about covers. Feel somewhat overwhelmed and stare at the floor.

11.30: Someone asks ‘so what was the inspiration for the book?’ Stammer. ‘Er, I like old ladies…’

12.00. They tell me that I shall be their main news item at the London Book Fair next week. They’re taking it to the US the week after. They think I could be big in Australia (?). They ask me to approve the following announcement:

‘A guilty secret about a passionate war-time friendship is dangled just beyond the reader’s grasp, right to the very end of Lady V’s tautly-plotted debut, AGC. Nora is a girl of twelve when the war breaks out and she is evacuated to rural Kent to stay with the Rivers family. As the spitfires roar overhead, Nora and Grace grow as close as sisters – and then closer still. But what happens next will gnaw away at Nora for the rest of her life, and it is only decades later – when she is certain that the end is near – that she can begin to tell her story…. An atmospheric coming-of-age novel that combines sustained intrigue within a contemporary narrative and a powerfully filmic evocation of 1940s Kent and bomb-battered London, the novel has already excited considerable pre-fair interest among book and film scouts. US and translation rights are on offer right now.’

12.05: Agree to everything.

12.30: Leave the offices after being kissed by everyone. Blush again.

12.32: Agent and I turn the corner and give an unladylike squeal.

12.35: Agent goes off to next meeting. I light up fag. When no-one is about, I do a little dance.

NB. The above picture is not one of Beth’s masterpieces. It is of course, my mentor, Lady B, who wrote 534 books in her lifetime, mostly dictated from her pink chaise longue, whilst nibbling petit fours.