So, you want to be a model?

Friday 9th July 2004.

London day four.

So, the Friday was a good day, busy as hell but good all the same. I
spent the day alone because Martha went to Kent to see her Dad and
Olive. I was glad to give her some time alone to be with her family and
besides, I had my own beef to fillet.

I had my interview with Chris Owen of Premier Model agency booked for
later in the day. Ahhh see, thought I'd forgotten about that, didn't
you?

At this point I still didn't quite get the connection between being an
author and having a personal interview with the biggest modelling
agency in London. I had no idea why I was going there and felt a bit
stupid. I didn't get the chance to talk to Maurio about it because he
had business meetings booked solid all day. I went without a clue what
this bloke was supposed to be able to do for me. I felt daft and didn't
really want to go but Maurio assured me that, like me, Chris was
'shitty hot, man'. It seemed a pointless exercise and I knew from the
phone conversation, when Maurio made the booking for me, that Chris was
seeing me only as a favour to him.

My appointment wasn't until five o clock, however, I had a problem.
Maurio wanted me to make a presentation for this man and I had nothing
to present. My books are heavy buggers and I'd only brought two
complete sets to London with me. The first set I sent to Armand, the
second I gave to T who is doing everything he can to promote me. Maurio
wanted photo's and reviews, blurbs and bio's and last but not least a
full set of books.

I tried to catch T before he went to the office to ask if I could
borrow my books for the day. His phone was switched off. I rang M who
was already at the office and he said that he'd try to get hold of T
for me and to come in to see them.

So my first stop of the day was Camden. I had to use the tube for the
very first time on my own. Now, you Londoners, who have been breast fed
and weaned on the bloody thing, may think that's no big deal. Believe
me, for a little Northern hickster, who thinks an eight seater mini bus
is first class travel it's a big deal. Anyway I'd done the run to
Camden so many times and was so rushed that I didn't give it a second
thought. I got to the ABCTales office fairly early. M and D were
already there but T wasn't. No problem though, M had spoken to him and
my books were still at the Bloomsbury and as he had to go and get some
other stuff, he said he'd pick my books up too, bless him. I sat and
talked to D for awhile and then went to kill time sitting on the steps
outside and talking to strangers ...and dogs. They let me use their
computers to print off some reviews which was very kind of them and
good as his word, M was soon back with the books. The day was looking
better now. At least I had a product to show this model man.

And I was off again. At this point I was left with some time to kill,
so I went to the Camden Kitchen and sat for two hours drinking Latte's
and reading Devil. I found quite a bit that I wanted to change, add to,
and get rid of. It was with grim determination that I decided I needed
to do, not only another edit but also a complete re-write. Devil was my
second novel. I sent it in reasonable nick to the publishers who
bollocksed it up beyond all recognition during their in-house editing
process. I was so disappointed when it came out in glossy print with an
edit that your average three year old might just be proud of if he
squinted when reading. I fought long and hard for six months,
threatening court and breech of contract until I got my re-print. The
second edit was eighty percent improved on the first but it still has
some way to go to be perfect. That's all by the by but it gave food for
thought to go with the coffee.

Soon I was on the move again, this time it was Camden to Covent Garden
where I had my interview. There was nobody in the flat at home to let
me in to get changed. I could have panicked, especially given what I
was wearing. I had on, what Martha calls my Jester skirt. It is lace,
purple and black. It's ratty with all the ends finishing at differing
lengths and it is covered in bells that I leave in my wake everywhere I
go, hardly suitable attire for an interview with a top model agency.
Aaah, the girl may be stupid, but she `aint daft. I had in my bag a
pair of decent shoes and an alternative skirt, long black and elegant.
Even with this foresight I still wasn't sorted. The top I was wearing
showed my back tattoo, was flauntingly see-through and was plain just
not suitable. I hunted the highs and lows of Camden to find a top. I
hunted Covent Garden to find a top. Finally, in M &;amp; S, of all
places, I found just the thing, it was perfect. I bought a simple,
classic black and white striped V-neck top. It looked okay with the
skirt and shoes and I felt, for once in my life, like a lady.

I still had some time to kill so went into the nearest pub to the
agency. I didn't exactly melt into the background. The staff and
clientele alike kept looking at me. I guessed that when I left they'd
all be talking about the stranger who bought a vodka and coke then sat
for an hour alone before leaving. Nobody came up and asked how much I
charge though, so no chance to make a few extra quid on the side.

I left the pub with five minutes to spare for my interview. I wanted to
be bang on time. Before I got to the agency, I sat on some steps and
changed out of my girly-girly school pumps into my shoes and tried not
to waddle in like a constipated duck. I can do anything in those shoes
bar walk in them.

I expected maybe a front desk, a corridor, a discreet knock on the
great man's office and admittance. This is my life, remember? Er, no! I
walked through the front door into a light and spacious room the size
of a football pitch. A hundred skinny eyes turned to look at me, and
there were a lot of them. The room was dominated by an enormous rotunda
of desks. Seated both sides of these fifty or so desks were some of the
world's most beautiful people. It stands to reason that a top model
agency isn't going to hire mingers to man (and woman) the desks. The
staff were as tiny and pretty as the models they were talking to. Every
single person in that room turned their heads to look at me and if I
thought the glances were appreciative, (which I didn't) then I was
sadly mistaken. They looked at me, they looked at each other and they
looked back at me again to make sure their eyes weren't deceiving them.
I could have put a thought bubble above any one of their heads and it
would have read bloody hell! Which planet has she just flown in from?
She's got no chance. Jesus, even old grannies think they've got what it
takes these days. I actually smiled to myself, this was one of the most
ludicrous situations I'd ever got myself into. I clutched my
Sainsbury's carrier bag (a plastic bag!) of books close to my chest and
prayed that they'd give me some confidence. M, love, in future couldn't
you buy your lunch from Harrods?

I was asked to wait in, not on, a side sofa, leather, Chesterfield,
very plush. It was also very sinky and very low, I dropped about three
feet into the damned thing and just knew that getting out of it again
wasn't going to be an elegant business. It was at that point that I had
my 'fuck it' moment. I had been sent to se an influential man. I had no
idea why. He made it very obvious that he didn't want to see me and
sounded as puzzled on the phone as I was. This was going to be a
disaster. What had I got to lose? I went in there with nothing and I
was going to come out with nothing. I didn't have to lose my sense of
humour or dignity too. These thoughts calmed me. Suddenly I wasn't
intimidated or in awe of the place. I was just going to see a bloke to
see if there was any possibility that he could do something for me to
further my writing. At this point I was still thinking along the lines
that maybe Maurio had author photos in mind.

They didn't keep me waiting long and after a very few minutes, and a
couple of minutes more while I manfully wrestled the sofa into
submission, I was taken to the board room to meet Chris. He was older
than I expected, about fifty, that was good. He wasn't an ex model,
that as brilliant, or if he was then the man had no Godly right to look
down his hooter at me! He just looked like a regular guy. His smile was
warm but puzzled and his handshake was firm. They say you form opinions
about a person in the first three seconds of meeting. I liked him. I
shudder to think what his first impression of me was. After shaking
hands, introducing ourselves and him motioning for me to sit down,
another sofa, nice and firm, thank you Lord, he took a second to
appraise me. I don't think the appraisal was favourable. I grinned,
what else could I do?

"Great shoes by the way, how do you walk in them?" He was smiling big
and I felt myself warming to him further. He must see shoes that cost
thousands and here he was complimenting me on my fourteen quid, six
inch, death defying, stiletto heel, factory shop specials.

"Oh, believe me I don't. I put them on two doors away and the second I
get out of here they are coming straight off again." I swear, he
laughed so hard that tears came into his eyes. My honesty about the
shoes and my inability to tame them, seemed to make a difference. He
relaxed, I was already relaxed and enjoying myself, I had nothing to
lose.

"So, Susan Simpson, why are you here? I'm not sure what this is all
about or why Maurio has sent you? He was blunt, I liked that.

"I have absolutely no idea. I was hoping you could tell me."

"Are you looking at a career in modelling?" Bless him, I'm sure I saw
him cringe on that last word.

"Good God, no. Do I look like a model?"

He laughed, "Never in a million years, so thank God for that. I have to
say that makes me feel a lot better.

"Huh, you, feel better? I write books."

"Ah," a light went on and the penny seemed to drop. Maurio told him at
least five times how I'm family and how shitty hot I am but never
thought to mention the books at all. Finally we were getting somewhere.
Chris explained to me that he used to be the acquisitions editor for
Pan books and still had some dealings with the publishing world. He
told me hat he had been instrumental in getting Marurio's book out.
Things were looking better.

"But," he went on to say. Why does there always have to be a 'but'
hadn't the conversation just taken a turn for the up? "Maurio's book
cost him twenty grand, I'm assuming you can't write a cheque in the
region of that amount?" Now, how did he know that? My clothes, my
demeanour, or just the way I wear destitute so well?

"Darling, I could write you a cheque for a fiver here and now, but it
would probably bounce." We waffled some more and I showed him the book
reviews that I had printed off. He looked impressed and hummed and
aahed a bit. This was good wasn't it? With a flourish I handed over my
precious works of art. He barely glanced at them and didn't bother to
open any. Devil was on the top so he chose that one to pick on.

"Who designed the cover?" I explained that it was collaboration between
myself and a graphic designer chosen by my publisher.

"It's shite!"

Oookaaay, Shite's descriptive, it doesn't mean that he hates it, does
it? Maurio says I'm shitty hot all the time. Maybe this was meant in a
similar vein.

"I love it." I said, defiantly. I wasn't going to be brow beaten by
this man for a second. "I'm very proud of that one, it's my favourite
cover."

"Jesus, it's awful. When I was working for Pan, if that had come onto
my desk, I'd have thrown it in the bin without even opening it. What's
to like about it?"

"Well, okay, I admit the red writing and font are a bit tacky, but the
picture's good, isn't it?"

"What picture, this grotty little line drawing in the corner?"

"Well ? um.. yes, And what about the face? She's beautiful, she's
enigmatic. I like the cover." I'm nothing if not stubborn. I wasn't
going to turn into a 'yes' person just because he doesn't like
it.

"And that, my dear, is presumably why you need my help." Far from
feeling deflated or insulted, I loved the way the conversation was
going. If the cover, that I think is damned good, is so horribly wrong
then I realised that I DO need help and although I can be opinionated,
I'm not stupid when it comes to listening to advise from someone who
bloody well knows what he's talking about.

He wasn't done with the verbal massacre yet.

"Do you write under your own name?"

"Yes, apart form my diaries which are honest but could get me sued a
million times over."

"It's shite. Change it."

He likes the word, shite. It seems to be one of his favourites.

"Okay, that's not a problem. Do you have any suggestions?"

"Do you want me to write your books for you as well?" Alright point
taken. But, he wasn't done, he still had a point to hammer home.

"Sue Simpson, says to me, factory worker. Is that how you want to
portray yourself."

"It's not too far from what I am, so, yes, I don't mind."

"Then go and work in a factory Susan and give up any idea of writing
books for a living." Next up was my appearance. I don't have the right
'look' to be an author. It's all about marketing and presentation. I
already now this but I don't want to be something I'm not. Still, for
once in my life, I kept quiet and took it on the chin.

Finally we got around to my books and what he could, or was prepared to
do, to help me. He told me he wasn't even going to look at my books in
book format. He said he wanted Devil, in MMS form and went on to say,
"If your writing is anywhere near as bad as your covers it'll go
straight in the bin and that will be it. But, I'll promise you this. I
will read what you've got to offer. I like you. I haven't reduced you
to tears yet, which is a first. I like your attitude. And if, and it's
a big IF mind, if I like it. I'll pass it on to a couple of people I
know and see what we can do to get you better established."

It was more than I could possibly have hoped for. I was soaring. I
liked Chris and figured it was worth pushing my luck a bit.

"Could I ask a favour, please?"

"What, another one?"

"Could I have six weeks. The thing is I was reading through it while I
had some time to kill." I'd already explained the (to steal a word)
shite edit. I told him that I wanted to do a strict edit and a bit of a
re-write.

"You can have six years if you want, love."

"But then you might forget me." I smiled and was flirting and he knew
it.

"Oh, I won't forget you. No danger of that." We agreed that six weeks
from the following Monday the script would be ready to send out to
him.

We shook hands and he escorted me out.

"You can go out the way you came if you like, or would you be more
comfortable leaving through the side door?" I could have kissed him
(and did later).

"Oh, thank you. I'm so glad I don't have to walk through all those
beautiful people again."

"Hey, don't you worry about them, Sooz, they're all airheads!"

And I was back in the street back in the real world. The white rabbit
shut the door behind me. His clock was ticking and he had things to do,
people to see, rabbit holes to disappear down. But, that isn't the end
of the Chris Owen saga as I was to discover later that night.