I'm Afraid That's All We've Got Time For (eBook)

I arrived at the entrance to the Literature House at the exact time set out on the invitation, turned my back on its facade, waded through the orange leaves on the opposing green, and climbed a tree. Sitting on a branch, I thought of the other shortlisted writers already inside, the cameras roving around trying to capture their famous targets, the lights heating up, the countdown to showtime running ever faster.

I wish I could know what story I’m trying to write when I’m writing it, was the magnified quote underneath my photo in the concertina brochure for the prize-giving that they were handing out at the Literary Exchange. I scannedit over and over throughout the journey. I go to the Literary Exchange to write. It used to be Bridge Gallery, that building by the river as big and open and bright as an airport terminal. They left the final exhibition up when the place went bankrupt. Now the space is full of reclining armchairs, all pointed at different angles towards different garish, neon paintings. Each armchair is next to a small, cuboid bookshelf, where you can choose from a selection of volumes wrapped in uniform grey packing paper, covering the title page and colophon; inside, all traces of the authors’ identities have been erased, too. I had read another Blank Book to focus my mind that afternoon.

After a surreal three years that began with my acceptances outweighing my rejections, and included winning a regional award, things were on the up – potentially stratospheric, depending on how tonight turned out. It was finally happening. Every year, for over twenty years, I had watched this historic occasion. The drama of it, the fuss, the prestige. I knew everything about the Prize of Prizes Prize; the compères, the scandals, the rumours, the winners. I still own a badge, jumper and notebook, all with the pre-1990s logo.

For the past ten years I’d wanted it in the opening line of my biography – and for it to be the reason I didn’t need an introduction. Five years ago, I’d signed up for the offer to receive specially bound copies of each winner’s book – always white, with black embossed font – as a way of affirming to myself that I, too, could be a winning writer.

Perched in the tree, under the street lamps’ cold light, I stroked my fragrant, freshly conditioned hair. I had been to the hairdresser that morning. Someone wearing a headset waved me down from the tree and handed me a glass of sherry. I followed them inside the Literature House to take part in, and perhaps become, an institution.

My coat was whisked away, a microphone clipped to my dress, and I was ushered into the ceremonial hall. Swirling around its five zoned-off areas, one for each stage of the evening, were hundreds of gaudy, volatile people. Cameras zoomed around, intruding on conversations. I was led to the zone nearest the entrance. As I approached, the other shortlisted writers, standing around two corpulent beer barrels, fell silent. I air-kissed all three. The lights dimmed with an ooooo from the crowd and a spotlight descended on us as the compère of the last twelve years, Audrey Wollen, began the proceedings:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re gathered here for the live, televised judging of the fifty-ninth Prize of Prizes Prize. Please give your warmest welcome to our four shortlisted authors: Bobi Entré, Thomas Grech, Hester Heller and F.F. Tine.

‘Our three esteemed judges will soon commence their private deliberations while seated on the platform nearest the Victory Chamber, where the exclusive party for the triumphant author will take place after the winner has been announced.

‘Each nominee’s book will also be discussed live by the nominated writers themselves – peers among peers – in an attempt to persuade our eavesdropping audience that they are most deserving of the Prize.

‘During the evening, each member of our four-hundred-strong audience – made up of readers chosen by ballot and special guest critics – will place a token in one of the centrally positioned glass vases, each representing a shortlisted author. The tokens all have different values. Readers’ bronze tokens are worth one vote. Critics’ silver ones are worth ten votes. The writers’ gold tokens are worth twenty-five votes. And no, they cannot vote for themselves – however much they long to. And, lastly, the author chosen bythe judges will receive two hundred and fifty additional votes. Whoever receives the most votes overall will win the Prize of Prizes Prize, instant fame, glory, the works.

‘But that’s not it, for, as usual, there are also consolation prizes to be awarded. The unsuccessful author with the highest number of gold tokens will win the exquisite Writers’ Choice Prize. The runner-up with the most silver tokens will get the coveted Critics’ Choice trophy. And, for light entertainment, the writer with the most bronze tokens will take home the Public Choice gong. Should an author qualify for multiple titles, the judges will share out the goodies. And we promise that, unlike last year (and every other year), we will not throw a custard pie in the Public Choice winner’s face.’

Tittering laughter, and one guffaw.

‘So, with all that out of the way – let us begin… Evening Drinks with Canapés!’

Aperitif! Aperitif! cheered the crowd.

As drums rolled, two large silver dishes of oysters were placed on the barrels in front of us. Flutes of champagne were handed around as our four books, each on a silver stand, were placed by our feet. The crowd relaxed and began to edge closer, occasionally penetrating the spotlight. We slurped oysters determinedly and began our discussion.

‘So, Mr Grech, Thomas if I may,’ Bobi Entré smiled, tossing an oyster shell onto the sawdust-covered floor of the zone. ‘A main character.’ He let it stand.

‘Yes,’ Thomas Grech nodded, lifting his champagne glass.

‘Don’t you think having a main character has been done to death?’

I was proud to be here – and, I assumed, the others were too. We had worked hard and produced the finest works of the year, perhaps of our generation. We deserved this honour. But I, and maybe the others too, considered the nominations with some suspicion. I had to admit, I knew all three people who had got me on the longlist, which wasn’t (technically) allowed. One was a publisher that I had read submissions for; another a non-fiction publisher who was courting me for a book; the third that well-meaning essayist everyone knows.

One of Hester Heller’s nominators, an ageing poet, is the brother of her publisher’s editorial director. One of the others is in her writing collective and shares her love of white space and absurd juxtaposition. A third taught her Persuasive Writing at university.

Bobi Entré’s manifold sponsors included a Scottish novelist who he once had an affair with and a widely despised aristocratic author who writes working-class characters with cringeworthy dialogue.

As for Thomas Grech, he was already lambasted in the media for being a ‘personality’ before even a single word of his book had been published. Barely twenty-one. Part-time model. Did not give a shit about being championed solely by his father’s friends, including one seventy-year-old writer who explained his choice: ‘It would be great to have a meeting of minds – and to get a photo with him.’

Still, the nomination that I was most suspicious of was the public’s, whose votes had whittled the longlist down to a final four after repeated televised adverts featuring jolly readings of book extracts with designated phone number extensions running along the bottom of the screen. What was their agenda? What did they gain? Did they just like the look of me? Had they read the review that said I was influenced by that monstrosity of a book? Did they know who my ex-boyfriend was? Or were they really struck by the two pages I had read while balanced on the roof of a river boat?

‘And what about your process?’ Hester queried.

‘My process is embedded within an aesthetic of relatability,’ Thomas enthused. ‘I chose popular names from the past year, overpopulated cities, popular items of clothing, most-searched-for turns of phrase and words of the year, made sure to mention the characters are reading the latest bestseller and watching the highest-grossing films. My publisher also sent me their three-year plan of what their predictive focuses were going to be thematically, so I took from that as well.’

‘And your next book?’ Bobi asked.

‘Oh, the same I think. But I’ll…’

‘…update everything…?’

‘…update everything and then we’ll do seasonal reissues.’

‘Some of us were a bit confused about the length…’ I ventured.

‘Well, it’s clearly just the first chapter.’

‘Right, with some bullet points across blank pages to set out what people can expect?’

‘Yeah, the book hasn’t been written yet, but people are really excited about it. That’s why we also submitted the Petition of Interest signed by everyone who will read it, once it’s written. Naturally, it’s going to go through a few changes, like plot and… Oh, here comes father!’

Applause rose as the illustrious playwright Edgar Rosalvo Grech entered, followed by an assistant...