Lost in a good book

PENGUIN BOOKS
LOST IN A GOOD BOOK

Jasper Fforde is the author of the
New York Times
bestseller
The Eyre Affair
(available as a Penguin paperback). He recently traded a varied career in the film industry to write and live in Wales.

ALSO BY JASPER FFORDE

The Eyre Affair

This Book
is dedicated to assistants everywhere.
You
make it happen for them.
They
couldn’t do it without you.
Your
contribution is everything.

1.
The Adrian Lush Show

Sample viewing figures for major TV networks in England, September 1985

N
ETWORK
T
OAD

The Adrian Lush Show
(Wednesday) (Chat show) 16,428,316

The Adrian Lush Show
(Monday) (Chat show) 16,034,921

Bonzo the Wonder Hound
(Canine thriller) 15,975,462

M
OLE
TV

Name That Fruit!
(Answer questions for cash prizes) 15,320,340

65 Walrus Street
(Soap opera; Episode 3,352) 14,315,902

Dangerously Dysfunctional People Argue Live on TV
(Chat show) 11,065,611

O
WL
V
ISION

Will Marlowe or Kit Shakespeare?
(Literary quiz show) 13,591,203

One More Chance to See!
(Reverse extinction show) 2,321,820

G
OLIATH
C
ABLE
C
HANNEL
(1
TO
32)

Whose Lie Is It Anyway?
(Corporate comedy quiz show) 428

Cots to Coffins: Goliath. All you'll ever need.
(Docuganda) 9 (disputed)

N
EANDERTHAL
C
ABLE
N
ETWORK
4

Powertool Club Live
(Routers and power planers edition) 9,032

Jackanory Gold
(
Jane Eyre
edition) 7,219

WARWICK FRIDGE
,
The Ratings War

I
DIDN
’
T ASK
to be a celebrity. I never wanted to appear on
The Adrian Lush Show.
And let’s get one thing straight right now—the world would have to be hurtling toward imminent destruction before I’d agree to anything as dopey as
The Thursday Next Workout Video.

The publicity surrounding the successful rebookment of Jane Eyre was fun to begin with but rapidly grew wearisome. I happily posed for photocalls, agreed to newspaper interviews, hesitantly appeared on
Desert Island Smells
and was thankfully excused the embarrassment of
Celebrity Name That Fruit.
The public, ever fascinated by celebrity, had wanted to know
everything
about me following my excursion within the pages of
Jane Eyre,
and since the Special Operations Network have a PR record on par with that of Vlad the Impaler, the Top Brass thought it would be a good wheeze to use me to boost their flagging popularity. I dutifully toured all points of the globe doing signings, library openings, talks and interviews. The same questions, the same SpecOps-approved answers. Supermarket openings, literary dinners, offers of book deals. I even met the actress Lola Vavoom, who said that she would simply
adore
to play me if there was a film. It was tiring, but more than that—
it
was dull.
For the first time in my career at the Literary Detectives I actually missed authenticating Milton.

I’d taken a week’s leave as soon my tour ended so Landen and I could devote some time to married life. I moved all my stuff to his house, rearranged his furniture, added my books to his and introduced my dodo, Pickwick, to his new home. Landen and I ceremoniously partitioned the bedroom closet space, decided to
share
the sock drawer, then had an argument over who was to sleep on the wall side of the bed. We had long and wonderfully pointless conversations about nothing in particular, walked Pickwick in the park, went out to dinner, stayed in for dinner, stared at each other a lot and slept in late every morning. It was
wonderful.

On the fourth day of my leave, just between lunch with Landen’s mum and Pickwick’s notable first fight with the neighbor’s cat, I got a call from Cordelia Flakk. She was the senior SpecOps PR agent here in Swindon and she told me that Adrian Lush wanted me on his show. I wasn’t mad keen on the idea—or the show. But there was an upside.
The Adrian Lush Show
went out live, and Flakk assured me that this would be a “no holds barred” interview, something that held a great deal of appeal. Despite my many appearances, the true story about
Jane
Eyre
was yet to be told—and I had been wanting to drop the Goliath Corporation in it for quite a while. Flakk’s assurance that this would finally be the end of the press junket clinched my decision. Adrian Lush it would be.

I traveled up to the Network Toad studios a few days later on my own; Landen had a deadline looming and needed to get his head down. But I wasn’t alone for long. As soon as I stepped into the large entrance lobby a milk-curdling shade of green strode purposefully towards me.

“Thursday,
darling!
” cried Cordelia, beads rattling. “
So
glad you could make it!”

The SpecOps dress code stated that our apparel should be “dignified,” but in Cordelia’s case they had obviously stretched a point. She looked about as far from a serving officer as one could get. Looks, in her case, were highly deceptive. She was SpecOps all the way from her high heels to the pink-and-yellow scarf tied in her hair.

She air-kissed me affectionately. “How’s married life treating you?”

“Very well.”

“Excellent, my dear, I wish you and . . . er . . .”

“Landen?”

“Yes; I wish you and Landen both the best.
Love
what you’ve done with your hair!”

“My hair? I haven’t done anything with my hair!”

“Exactly!” replied Flakk quickly. “It’s so incredibly
you.
What do you think of the outfit?”

“One’s attention is drawn straight to it,” I replied ambiguously.

“This
is
1985,” she explained. “Bright colors are the future. See this top? Half price in the sales. I’ll let you loose in my wardrobe one day.”

“I think I’ve got some pink socks of my own somewhere.”

She smiled.

“It’s a start, my dear. Listen, you’ve been a shining star about all this publicity work; I’m very grateful—and so is SpecOps.”

“Grateful enough to post me somewhere other than the Literary Detectives?” I asked hopefully.

“Well,” murmured Cordelia reflectively, “first things first. As soon as you’ve done the Lush interview your transfer application will be aggressively considered, you have my word on
that.
”

I sighed. “Aggressively considered” had the ring of “ definitely perhaps” about it and wasn’t as promising as I could have wished. Despite the successes at work, I still wanted to move up within the Network. Cordelia, reading my disappointment, took my arm in a friendly gesture and steered me towards the waiting area.

“Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

“Spot of bother in Auckland?”

“Brontë Federation offshoot caused a bit of trouble,” I explained. “They didn’t like the new ending of
Jane Eyre.
”

“There’ll always be a few malcontents,” observed Flakk with a smile. “Milk?”

“Just a tad.”

“Oh,” she said, staring at the milk jug, “this milk’s off. No matter. Listen,” she said quietly, “I’d love to stay and watch, but some SpecOps-17 clot in Penzance staked a Goth by mistake; it’s going to be PR hell on earth down there.”

SO-17 were the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operation. Despite a new three-point confirmation procedure, a jumpy cadet with a sharpened stake could still spell
big
trouble.

“Everything is all absolutely hunky-dory here. I’ve spoken to Adrian Lush and the others so there won’t be any embarrassments.”

“No holds barred, eh?” I grimaced, but Flakk was unapologetic.

“Needs must, Thursday. SpecOps requires your support in these difficult times. President Formby
himself
has called for an inquiry into whether SpecOps are value-for-money—or even necessary at all.”

“Okay,” I agreed, quite against my better judgment, “but this is the
very last interview,
yes?”

“Of course!” agreed Flakk hastily, then added in an overdramatic manner: “Oh my goodness is that the time? I have to catch the airship to Barnstaple in an hour. This is Adie; she’ll be looking after you and . . . and—” here Cordelia leaned just a little bit closer—“remember you’re SpecOps, darling!”

She air-kissed me again, glanced at her watch and took to her heels in a cloud of expensive scent.

“How could I forget?” I muttered as a bouncy girl clutching a clipboard appeared from where she had been waiting respectfully out of earshot.

“Hi!” squeaked the girl. “I’m Adie. I’m
so
pleased to meet you!”

She grasped my hand and told me repeatedly what a
fantastic
honor it was.

“I don’t want to bug you or anything,” she asked shyly, “but was Edward Rochester
really
drop-dead-gorgeous-to-die-for?”

“Not handsome,” I answered as I watched Flakk slink off down the corridor, “but certainly attractive. Tall, deep voice and glowering looks, if you know the type.”

Adie turned a deep shade of pink.

“Gosh!”

I was taken into makeup, where I was puffed and primped, talked at mercilessly and made to sign copies of the
FeMole
I had appeared in. I was very relieved when Adie came to rescue me thirty minutes later. She announced into her wireless that we were “walking” and then, after leading me down a corridor and through some swing doors, asked:

“What’s it like working in SpecOps? Do you chase bad guys, clamber around on the outside of airships, defuse bombs with three seconds to go, that sort of stuff?”