‘I have often lamented that we cannot close our ears with as much ease as we can our eyes.’ Richard Steele
The room is tiny. There are no windows and as far as I know the door may be locked from the outside. On the miniature, doll-sized desk in front of me are two pieces of chalk, a roll of gaffer tape and a razor blade. Strange acts have been committed here, by extremely small people. A man with a body odour problem has just come in and snapped a pair of excruciatingly tight headphones over my ears.
I hate doing live radio. I loathe and detest it. I don’t even like talking on the phone, let alone doing an interview down a wire, with someone I can’t see and have never met. I’m always convinced it will bring out my long-dormant stammer. And then there’s the horrifying idea that people might be out there listening, from their cars, offices and kitchens. None of them, I am sure, will have the slightest interest in anything I have to say. Why have I agreed to this? What conspiracy of decisions or chains of events has brought me here, to this, sitting obediently in a head-manacle in a broom cupboard, sweating into my beloved best shirt, waiting for a sign from someone or something?
A trickle of notes down the line heralds my connection to the distant radio station, across the breadth of the country. A soupy jazz record is playing. I strain for the voice of a technician, telling me what’s about to happen, but instead, over the tinkly piano, I hear the presenter yell, ‘Who’ve we got next?’
There is a pause. A scuffling of papers. I sit up straighter, even though they can’t see me, just to be ready.
‘Eh …’ another voice says over more paper-scuffling, ‘… Maggie O’Farrell.’
‘Who?’ the presenter barks.
‘She’s a writer.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he yells, ‘who booked her? I’ve never heard of her.’
I stop sitting straighter. Some part of me realizes that at this point I should cough or clear my throat to let them know that I’m here, but the presenter is still shouting:
‘I’m sick of you booking these bloody nobodies. When are you going to get me some proper guests?’
The headphones are so tight I feel as though I’m undergoing a cranial lobotomy. I gaze blankly at the razor blade as the presenter harangues the producer for his bad choice in guests, demanding to know what my books are called, what they’re about and what on earth I’m going to want to say.
‘And where is she, anyway?’ he snaps.
‘She’s in the other studio,’ the producer says.
There is another pause while the jazz record spirals on, the pianist still tinkling away politely. We listen to each other breathing. The producer, poor man, clears his throat. ‘Are you there, Maggie?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Can you hear us?’ he asks weakly.
‘Uh-huh.’
The record ends. The presenter fills his lungs. ‘And now I have a special treat for you all. Here in the studio to talk about her new book is authoress Mary Farrell.’