Tell Him About It (4 page)

Sara sat in the corner with Polly. She only really spoke when spoken to during such meetings. It was the sales, marketing and editorial teams who were most vocal during the discussions. It was as much a battle of egos, as opposed to ideas, as to which books were acquired she had long realised.

The publishing director, Martin Tweed, was indeed thankfully present and headed up the meeting, ably assisted by the senior editors for fiction (John Burke) and non-fiction (Charlotte Hurst). Various people from the sales department were also in attendance. They looked after key accounts, such as those with the supermarkets, Waterstones and Amazon. A dishevelled looking Eddie Woolly, who was the sales rep for independent bookshops, also sat himself in the corner, next to Polly. Nicotine stained fingertips scratched a half-grown beard. When he wasn’t scowling at his colleagues during the meeting he was often yawning, to accentuate how bored he was. Sara liked Eddie though. He could be fun (when he was in a good mood) and he had a genuine encyclopaedic knowledge of what had been published in the past decade, having worked at Ottakar’s for several years. Julian was present and sat with a handful of other editors and editorial assistants across the table from the significant players in the marketing and sales teams, ready to talk (argue) about any and everything. Most of the members of the marketing team, even the senior people, were younger than Sara. Their hair was filled with “product” and they checked their iPhones (mainly for Facebook updates) every two minutes. Most had a degree in marketing (from an old polytechnic) and most read no more than a dozen books a year, which was understandable given the amount of reality TV shows the women (girls) watched and given the amount of time the men (boys) spent playing Xbox.

There was already an air of tension in the room from previous meetings. A number of titles had either succeeded, or failed, over the past month. And in publishing success has many fathers, whilst failure is an orphan. Acquisition meetings for future titles were as much about previous books and previous arguments. Sara had now heard the sentiment “I told you so” expressed in more ways than she could remember. A conscious and unconscious fear that people could lose their job also stoked an already fractious atmosphere.

Everyone sat with a print out or tablet before them, containing info about the proposals to be discussed. First up was a biography of Unity Mitford, by the established historian Miranda Woodman, which Charlotte Hurst was hoping to sign-up.

“I’ve never heard of her,” Troy Jones, a boisterous marketing assistant who was the nephew of the company’s finance director, dismissively remarked – proud rather than ashamed of his ignorance of the Mitford sisters.

“The author is an established name, she will deliver a good book on time and if we can secure worldwide rights we’ll be able to sell the book in US,” Charlotte patiently replied, arguing for the acquisition to go ahead. Sara liked and respected Charlotte Hurst. She was fiercely intelligent and fiercely passionate about books. For decades she had been responsible for numerous bestselling and prizewinning works of History and Biography. The sales and marketing teams often made misogynistic or ageist jokes about Charlotte behind her back – but due to the loyalty of her stable of authors the sales and marketing teams knew that they couldn’t pension her off quite yet.

“I’m not sure that the book will play to our strengths though,” Chaz Connelly, the head of marketing who only ever showed enthusiasm for celebrity biographies and crime novels, said. Chaz was, unfortunately, Australian. He was forever internet shopping whilst at work and had a septum half burned out through a cocaine habit.

“Max, what do you think?” Martin Tweed asked, turning to his sales director, who was responsible for selling books into the supermarkets. Max Souness loved his job, wife and children though Sara suspected that, more than anything, Max Souness loved Max Souness. He was the youngest sales director in publishing and spoke with an authority which was borne from arrogance rather than experience. Yet he had worked hard at cultivating relationships with his key accounts and regularly persuaded the supermarkets to stock Bradley House titles. A trade magazine had named him as being the twelfth most powerful person in publishing.

Max waited for everyone to turn and look at him before pursing his lips and shaking his head, as if he were a doctor informing a family that the patient wouldn’t make it. Eddie Woolly rolled his eyes and sighed, frustrated that Max Souness had again turned down what would likely be a well written – and profitable – book that the likes of Waterstones and independent bookshops could get behind. Yet he had faith that Charlotte could still rescue the project by talking to Martin Tweed in private at a later date.

The next book to be discussed was a crime novel,
Blood Work
, by a debut author, Christina Ponting. John Burke described the book as “a cross between Martina Cole and Peter James.” Eddie Woolly sardonically chipped in that perhaps the author should write under the name “Martina James”. A number of the marketing assistants nodded enthusiastically and wrote down the idea on their iPads.

“Try getting the book for no more than thirty thousand.” Tweed proposed, after one of the editorial assistants argued how “genre strong” the novel was.

The next few submissions were given the thumbs down. The first one, a literary novel, “would fall between genres rather than straddle them.” The second book to be dismissed was from an author whose last book flopped. “Bookscan figures don’t lie. Her numbers just don’t add up.” Also, Margaret Duvall put a further nail into the coffin by remarking that “the author isn’t marketable”, meaning that she was too old and unattractive in her view. The third proposal was for a celebrity autobiography of a DJ from the nineteen seventies, who had also worked for the BBC. The first chapter touched upon his friendship with another celebrity who had been in the newspapers due to a sex scandal story.

“The last thing we need is to publish a possible paedophile,” Tweed said.

“Think of the publicity though,” Troy Jones replied. More than one person in the room shook their head, as though they were a vet who wanted to communicate that Jones was a dog who needed to be put down.

The next two books, a history of the battle of the Somme and a cold war thriller, were both met with enthusiasm. In regards to the latter John Burke mentioned how the agent now wanted the publishers to put in a pre-emptive offer of six figures.

“Call his bluff. He should know that he hasn’t the clout to pull that kind of shit anymore. Just hint that you’ll be hesitant about signing up other authors in his stable. That should give him a reality check and bring down the price,” Martin Tweed remarked, smiling at the daring, or stupidity, of the literary agent in question. Or was it a triumphant grin that could be seen on his face? Publishers now had agents over a barrel, Sara had heard. Major players like Bradley House signed fewer books, for less money. Also, agents were not only kowtowing to the new austerity climate, instigated after the crash of 2008, but they were also still being stonewalled over low eBook royalties for their authors (of only 25% of net, as opposed to cover price, revenues). Agents could still command high advances for their marquee names, but their mid-list authors had seen their advances cut by more than half.

Much had been written during the past few months about how publishers and eBook platforms had colluded on setting high prices, but the untold scandal of the publishing industry was still that major publishers were underpaying authors on their eBook royalties; in a sense they were colluding on setting scandalously low royalty rates. The agents, fearful of upsetting the publishers lest they refused to sign new deals for their authors, remained silent over the issue despite their private frustration and ire. Joe Simpson was one of the few authors who had broken the omertà over the problem. Sara considered how agents were now representing the interests of the publishers, rather than their writers. Indeed it was said that many authors, who had signed old contracts before the emergence of Kindle, were on a royalty of 50% of net revenues. Publishers had never envisioned eBooks taking off, therefore they could afford to offer attractive royalties on sales that they believed would never exist. But eBooks now accounted for over half the market in certain genres. Publishers had threatened agents and told them to have their authors sign new amended contracts of 25% – otherwise they would refuse to release their backlist books in a digital format (and also refuse to give them back the rights to publish elsewhere).

Sara and Polly shared a look and a smile as a few pot shots duly began to be fired across the table while further proposals were discussed. John Burke mentioned how “the marketing would need to be done properly” for one novel. Max Souness said that, “As long as the publicity department thinks it can generate coverage for the book it should sell.” Chaz Connelly hinted how the majority of submissions that Julian put forward were from authors represented by literary agents who played in his cricket team.

Just over half way through the meeting Eddie Woolly decided to have his monthly rant too: “Why are we solely publishing for the supermarkets? We should be commissioning good books and having faith that they will sell in bookshops. Rather than chasing the next Lee Child and Helen Fielding we should be looking to sign up the next Paul Auster and Henry Fielding... Amazon and Tesco are the devil, not a golden calf that we should all be worshipping at the feet of... We should act as if Amazon doesn’t exist.”

Sara often sympathised with Eddie when he went off on such rants. Sooner or later, if bookshops continued to close down, he would be out of a job that, sometimes, he seemed to enjoy. Yet in terms of his philosophy regarding publishing he was, at best, swapping deckchairs on the Titanic. The old world was gone. Waterstones, far more than the supermarkets, had been responsible for Waterstones demise. The likes of Bradley House were no longer all powerful Gods of profit and culture. Amazon and Tesco were not the devil. They were just big companies reacting to and taking advantage of the book market as best they could, just like Bradley House (albeit Bradley House hadn’t been quite as successful over the past few years). What Eddie didn’t realise, or refused to realise, was that people liked Kindle. Kindle was convenient, offered more choice and (aside from certain titles published by the major houses) was cheaper.

Apparently, Sara heard, it used to be that commissioning editors ultimately decided the books a publisher would publish – and the sales team were given the catalogue and instructed to go out and sell the list. More so now though the sales team decided which books would be signed-up. They often directed the editorial team to find titles that were riding a trend, or that the supermarkets were interested in (such as vampire fiction, Scandinavian crime or ghost-written autobiographies of C-list celebrities). It also used to be the case that publicists had more freedom and they could and would champion a book (instead of merely being told to work on the book that month that the publishers had paid the largest advance for). Rather than championing books nowadays though people often disowned them before they even went to print, fearing that they might be linked to a flop that could cost them their job. Debut authors were often too much of a risk. The safest bet was to just sign authors who were on TV. “We need to find the Jamie Oliver of History,” someone had remarked at the meeting. “Why don’t we commission an actor from EastEnders to front a crime novel and just get a ghost to write it?”

The old world was gone – and it was far from a brave new one, populated by goodly creatures. Publishers now looked to screw over agents. Agents looked to screw over publishers. Both publishers and agents looked to screw over authors. Supermarkets looked to screw over publishers, demanding greater discounts and stocking fewer titles. Everybody seemed to be screwing each other over, Sara thought – it was all lust and little love between them. Pleasing shareholders had become more important than pleasing readers, but what they should have realised was that by pleasing readers the publishers would eventually please shareholders. Despite all the above though Sara enjoyed her job and Bradley House still produced some good books (as well as its fair share of dreadful ones).

In regards to the last book discussed at the meeting Martin Tweed had already finalised the deal (for an advance that most in the room considered was three times what it should have been). Bradley House was proud to announce that it would be publishing the diaries of a former leading Labour politician, David Preston-Whyte. Sara later found out that Preston-Whyte’s wife was best friends with Mrs Martin Tweed – they did yoga together.

Sara smiled when, after the meeting, she heard Charlotte Hurst remark, “If only Preston-Whyte can sex up his diaries as much as his dossiers.”

7.

To make up for him being absent the night before – and due to a client cancelling an appointment – Simon arranged to take Sara out for lunch after the acquisitions meeting. He whisked her off in a cab and took her to a new bistro, Auberge, which had opened up on the river in Chiswick.

They sat out on the terrace, which overlooked a pea green Thames flecked with sunlight. Sara was wearing a pleated poker dot cotton dress that Rosie had bought her for her birthday. Simon wore a cream summer blazer from Brooks Bros and shirt which was almost as white as his gleaming teeth.

The sound of the breeze, teams of rowers out on the river, and the murmur of other diners on the terrace filled the silences between the couple. Sara had the sea bass on a bed of green salad. Simon ordered the pasta. They made small talk. He was forever thumbing away on his Blackberry though and Sara frequently looked out upon the twinkling river, distracted. She was thinking about him. Adam. What was he doing? Was he working, writing? What book was he reading? Or was he spending his day chasing barmaids and drowning his sorrows in a bottle of vodka?

“Penne for your thoughts?” Simon joked, holding up some of his pasta on his fork.