I was standing in the cold in the square outside the Guildhall wrapped in my new coat, wishing it were longer and that I’d worn stockings. My slender black ankle-strap heels had looked so good with my Tom Ford dress, but with the coat on I looked like a tarty Kate Middleton. Or Pippa Middleton. And I was freezing. My bare toes were turning blue.
Where was Zoe? We had canned our pre-drinks drinks as both of us were running late, but now she was late for the drinks. Watching the other invitees arrive, I was glad I’d chosen to wear my first choice, the more classic little black dress. My second choice was a low-cut, obscenely short red number. More footballer’s wife than editor. Black was the right choice. The most daring colour I’d seen pass me was purple. And mine were the only bare legs to be seen.
Zoe finally arrived, a diminutive dark beauty with an enormous smile. She too was wrapped up in a woollen coat, but she was wearing closed-toe pumps and stockings. Very sensible. The first thing she did was take a selfie of us both and post it on Instagram. She spoke at a million miles an hour and I didn’t get a word in as we joined the crowd entering the building. We handed in our coats at the cloakroom and had our photo taken on the way. Zoe then took more selfies. At least ten. She was bubbling over with excitement and compliments, which I returned and she beamed with pleasure. When we reached the reception, Zoe left me by myself for a moment while she went off in search of Malcolm’s publisher, Hayley Granger. I opened my clutch and made sure Malcolm’s envelope was in there.
I’d expected the Booker to buck the trend of literary events. It was the Booker after all. But it didn’t. It was worse. The room was rapidly filling with a collection of dull, middle-aged frumps. Faces I didn’t recognise. Fashion I didn’t understand.
My sleeveless little black dress seemed to grow shorter with every second. There was more skin showing on my body than was to be seen on all of the other women combined.
But it was a room where a woman dressed as I was, looking as naked and as fabulous as I was, could stand all by herself until the end of time without being approached. There weren’t even any lecherous middle-aged men. The room was filled with decent middle-aged men who wouldn’t dream of boring a young beauty like me.
And the younger men were all too earnest, all too serious to let their minds wander from their intellectual discussions to the base temptations of the flesh.
When Zoe finally returned with Hayley Granger I was on my second glass of champagne, still all alone, and wishing I was dead.
Then I saw Julia.
Of course she would be there. I was an idiot for not even considering this. It was the Booker. She was publishing director of M&R. I was glad to see she looked horrendous in a pale-blue lace and satin gown. Like a runaway bridesmaid.
Hayley Granger spoke to me. ‘How’s Malcolm?’ she asked.
‘Fine. I think.’
Julia was laughing. Who was that with her? He looked familiar.
‘I’m astonished that A Hundred Ways is a serious contender. You know I tried to talk him out of publishing it. What did you think?’
‘It rattled me.’
Julia had put on weight, too. She was standing very close to the familiar older man with her. He was tall and lean and his face looked ravaged by loss.
‘Is he writing at the moment? He won’t return my calls,’ Hayley persisted.
‘It’s been a difficult time.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Hayley seemed like a nice enough woman, but nothing she could now do would get my full attention.
When Max joined our little group, I was so surprised I actually let out a little scream. He laughed and kissed my cheek. He introduced himself to Zoe and Hayley and started talking about the chances of an American winning. He was wearing a tux, and with his hair longer and a little unruly, looked a bit like Kit Harington. He certainly looked as tall as Kit Harington from my vantage point atop my ruinously high heels.
My glass was empty again. I looked around for a waiter. None to be seen. Hayley said she would join us later and left our group.
Zoe and Max discovered they knew a lot of the same people. And Max found, as I had done, that Zoe could talk. For every story Max told, Zoe had a better one. And if it wasn’t one of her own, she was happy to borrow one of Trevor’s. Trevor did know everyone. And all the while, without drawing breath, she took more selfies and posted them, typing away at a furious rate on her phone.
I looked over Max’s shoulder at Julia and saw what I didn’t want to see. Liam was with her now.
I turned my back on them, knowing he would know I was there. He never missed a thing.
I expected him to come and join us, especially as Max was with me, but he did no such thing. The next time I saw him was in the middle of a general movement of people towards the Great Hall. He had his arm around Julia’s waist.
‘Isn’t that Liam?’ Max asked as we followed the crowd.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that his wife?’
‘No, that’s my boss, or more correctly, was my boss, at M&R, Julia O’Farrell.’
‘Never heard of her. And they’re a couple now? Has he left his wife?’
‘He thinks he’s just fucking Julia. But she has other plans. As far as I know, he’s still with his wife. We haven’t spoken for a while.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘He’s trying to terminate our contract. He wants to go it alone.’
‘And what do you think about that?’
‘I try not to think about that. But I know something he probably doesn’t know yet.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s fucked.’
Max looked at me. I raised my eyebrows and mouthed, ‘What?’
He laughed. ‘Don’t fuck with Amy . . . noted. Where are you sitting?’
‘I don’t know.’
We went over to the seating plan together. Hayley Granger was ahead of us. Zoe was with her. She turned and said, ‘Table eleven for us. I don’t know where you are, Max.’
‘Right at the back, I expect.’
*
By the time the winner was announced I was so bored I just wanted the night to end. I wasn’t listening to the speakers. I had completely tuned out. Julia and Liam were on the other side of the room out of sight and Max was behind me somewhere in the gloom. My attention was focused on the last few breadsticks standing forlornly in the glass. The rest of the table was either whispering together or scrolling on their phones. I was jealous of Zoe; she had been on Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, The Guardian, Tinder and now Twitter. And she had been interrupting these by messaging someone the whole night. My phone was now just a phone.
So I didn’t hear them announce that Malcolm had won. I missed it.
Zoe screamed, clapping her hands like a child, then laughed loudly before suddenly grabbing me and hugging me, her face pressed hard against my own, held her phone aloft and took yet another selfie. Hayley stood up. I shook off Zoe and stood up. Hayley kissed my cheek. It still hadn’t clicked. I looked around the tables nearby. They were all looking at us.
‘He fucking won?’ I said quietly to Hayley.
‘He fucking won,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘You’d better get your skates on. Do you have his speech?’
‘Somewhere.’ I looked around for my clutch. It was on the floor.
‘Hurry, the Duchess is waiting.’
‘Duchess?’
I opened my bag and took out Malcolm’s envelope. I did not want to do this. When I’d said yes, it seemed there was no chance of me having to actually do it. I’d said yes because Malcolm asked with such desperation in his eyes.
Hayley pushed me in the right direction and I made my way through the tables. The Duchess of Cornwall greeted me.
I stood at the podium. The lights were not so bright as to blind me. I could clearly see the faces looking up at me expectantly. Faces I recognised, faces I didn’t. All was quiet.
My mind was blank. Then I said this: ‘Just in case there’s someone here from the Daily Mail or The Sun, I want to be crystal clear, I’m not Malcolm Taylor.’ It got me a few laughs but I have no idea where it came from. ‘However, Malcolm has prepared a speech he’s asked me to read,’ I said in a faltering voice. ‘I only agreed to do this because they all assured me he wouldn’t win,’ I said as I turned the envelope in my fingers and added, ‘I’ve been drinking like a fish all night. Bear with me.’
There was a little polite laughter.
I then tried to open his envelope. It took a moment. I was finally forced to tear at it. I really should have opened it before getting on stage but Malcolm had warned me not to. And in the confusion of the announcement, I had forgotten.
Three handwritten pages emerged.
I read.
‘My name is Amy Winston, the brains behind the Jack Cade novels.’
I stared at what I had just read.
‘He wrote that here,’ I said, holding up the page to the crowd for inspection. ‘I’m just reading what he wrote. I am Amy Winston, by the way.’ And I laughed and then abruptly stopped. I couldn’t see Liam. There was utter silence. ‘The speech begins now.’
‘I thank you for this award. But I do fear the judges have made a catastrophic mistake. A Hundred Ways is not a work worthy of such commendation. It is a cancer of a book, which needs to be excised from the body of literature before it spreads. That it has gained such notoriety worries me. It may be too late.
‘Some commentators have said it is the book this age deserves. But for me, this is the best of all ages. An age that deserves better than this. In fact, this book has nothing at all to do with what is occurring today. Trump and Brexit, the rise of the far right, are minor corrections in a general movement towards a more equitable future. I am not a doom and gloom writer.
‘A Hundred Ways is a full stop, an end, not a beginning. I didn’t want to start a conversation. I wanted to end one.
‘I have been writing professionally for fifty years. I am nearly eighty. I speak from some experience when I say this is the best of all ages. Which is not to say it is perfect. It is not. It is very far from perfect. But it is better than past ages.
‘A Hundred Ways is my full stop, a novel that closes the door on my apprenticeship. I feel ready to write now without the aid of my masters.
‘The writers in the room will understand me. At least the good ones will. And yes, there are good and bad writers. Good and bad books. If you can’t tell the difference you haven’t even started your apprenticeship.
‘A Hundred Ways should be published with a warning. I didn’t realise this until it was too late. I didn’t realise how attractive the book would be to the young and the uninitiated. Most of my peers recognise it for what it is: an ugly little book. They admonish me for writing it. But the young cradle it in their laps like a pet rat. They stroke and play with it, oblivious of the disease it carries.
‘And it won’t do any young writer any good to read it, either.
‘But enough about A Hundred Ways. It has won the Man Booker. The deed is done. There is no going back. I can only apologise for writing it in the first place and ask that none of you read it.
‘If you must read an ugly little book, read The Sellout by Paul Beatty, which would have been my pick for this honour. [Applause]
‘Before I let Amy leave the stage, I’d like to speak of my wife, the great Helen Owen. The finest British writer not to have won the Man Booker. Shame on us all.
‘Tomorrow will mark fifty years since we were married, which means I have been living and working beside one of the world’s greatest thinkers and writers for over fifty years. And for that I am thankful. It hasn’t always been easy. Helen does not rest. Helen does not bend. She is always evolving as a writer. Always striving to be better. Just being in her presence has made me a better writer. But it has been exhausting. At times I have felt like Muhammad Ali’s sparring partner.
‘And you guys have given me, the sparring partner, the Man Booker. What fools we all are. [Laughter]
‘Helen taught me what it is to have integrity. She is an authentic voice in a sea of compromise. Hand in hand we have walked a difficult path, and we have been rewarded with a small but loyal readership who have kept the wolves at bay all these years. I want to thank the few for taking a little interest in us for such a long time. With your help we have been free from the corrupting influence of success for all our working lives. Publishers, in the main, are people of integrity. And our publishers have been committed to the good work we always aspired to create. They gave us their unswerving support in a world where poor work pays the bills, giving us the time and the freedom to remain true to ourselves.
‘I want to thank Hayley Granger, my publisher, who told me not to publish this book. I should have listened to you. And I want to thank my long-suffering agent, the legendary Trevor Melville, a man who never collected his fee because he said my work never sold enough to cover the cost of his accountant. You may want to collect on this one, Trevor. [Laughter]
‘And finally, as I would not be standing here if it were not for my wife, I dedicate this award to Helen Owen. I love you, darling.
‘Thank you.’
I read the thank you and stood there for a moment. I wanted to say something, to add something to Malcolm’s words. While reading, tears had welled up in my eyes. They now fell unremarked. The audience was silent. Expectant.
But I left the podium without another word. Malcolm had said everything that needed to be said. The room erupted in applause as I was ushered out the back and given a minute to compose myself.
Then they made me pose for photos, which was odd. I’d had nothing to do with the book. I didn’t even know Malcolm when he wrote it. Thankfully I was joined by Hayley Granger, who took over those duties. She answered the questions of journalists. She spoke with the Duchess. I made my way to the ladies’ room.