"You are in need of an author photo", said my lit agent. I look up at him with disapproving eyes. I can't stand him and he knows this. He overcompensates with false jovial exuberance where I want to kick him in the balls. We meet at three o'clock for afternoon tea. If I were a decent writer our meeting would have been held at nine o'clock AM at his office. He always dresses smart. It's the one thing I like about him. My lackluster book sales probably paid for his tie. I wore my one and only Chanel suit, because I don't want to look like a pauper to his dapper. I sigh and look out the window. "What are your ideas", I ask without looking at him. I wasted Lagerfield for this.
The author photo is the sacrificial bunt of the book buying process. You want to move the consumer along the basepath, hopefully bring them home and collect a royalty. To do so you have to have a nifty title, an appealing book cover, a decent story, good reviews and ultimately a connection to readers. A graceful and witty online presence alongside the author photo are bunts. Ideally I would want a drawing of a middle finger as my author photo. Or, me standing in front of Benedict Cumberbatchs' wax figure smiling to the camera and giving the middle finger. It's interchangeable really. Max, my agent, has a different take on things. That is why he wears the expensive suits and I am, one of, his writer puppets.
Before he can answer my question I look at him and ask, "Why don't you write?" He is so good at marking up my manuscripts, circling and crossing whole paragraphs or words in red pencil. Which is one of the reasons why I have a problem with him. He takes the heart out of my stories, leaves them soulless and drowning. He immediately looks at the concrete ground of the tea house chuckles and grins. "I'm not interested in writing, I don't have much to say. I would rather represent writers who harbor talent and that I believe in". He looks straight at me when he says "believe in". His brown eyes turn warm and empathetic. He is doing the thing where he is trying to convince me he is human and not a robot. I disregard my wanton need to roll my eyes at him right this moment. I tell myself to just smile and nod. Maybe he too thinks I am a robot? I have been terrorizing Max for the past two years. I've never actually warmed up to him. I don't have the coddling agent or even a coddling therapist. Though I do have a dog and isn't that all one needs? As much as I want to get rid of Max I don't think another agent will take me on. I am too much of a risk. My projectile sales are limited. Max returned to America, after the war and then job transferred to London two Winters ago. I know I am suppose to be nice to him because we are both ex-pats. I am cordial and professional. Not warm, England has grown on me.
The cafe is not crowded, this is my first time here. Out the window umbrellas with human feet brush up and run into one another on the sidewalk. It's raining again in London. I want to get out of here. I don't want to resort to small talk.
My English boyfriend, Lars, is at home after spending the night hours working at a restaurant and the morning going to acting auditions. We met two and a half years ago in the audience of the Graham Norton show. He was with his mother. For her birthday she wanted to see the show. I was on holiday in England, spending my second month still doing touristy things. I wanted to listen to a musical guest perform on the show. There is an in-studio game where Norton and his guests decide if two people, in the audience, are married. Of course they would pick me with my long hair and medium skin complexion siting next to the pale redhead. I spent the last twenty minutes getting used to his collapsed long limb bumping into my thigh. I pretended not to notice since he let me have the armrest holder. The host and guest chose wrong, we were not the married couple in the audience. I did get to meet his mother, in a very casual situation. After exchanging Twitter handles and then phone numbers he asked me out to dinner three weeks later. Any day now I expect him to propose. I'm hoping it will be on my birthday which is two weeks away. I will turn thirty nine this Christmas. I was really swept off my feet after meeting Lars. I stayed, found an apartment and scored a book deal. I rejoiced in my good fortune. We moved in together a year into our relationship. To be in your thirties and falling in love with an Englishmen in London. I should be writing romance stories. I would but the frenzy for dystopian/fantasy young adult literature is moving the market. I have a half-assed story involving a .... (I don't know I'm still figuring this out.) My heart isn't into it but I still bang out a thousand words a day. Words and ideas that never pass go with Max.
Max pitches his ideas about the author photo. Nothing original. I was told you shouldn't smile or wear anything sleeveless in an author photo. "I want to be on a hammock somewhere tropical for my photo. And you are going to pay for this trip.", I say with gusto. "Are you going to wear a bikini in this photo?" "No" "What about a sarong?" "Just a sarong? No. Do I have to show my face in this photo?" "Yes". "Why?" "The reader wants to connect with you. See those brown eyes of yours and say, I'll buy this book from her. She looks ladylike and wholesome". "Little do they know you are the brains behind the operation. Katie Price has four books out. What do the readers see in her author photo?" "One word, two giants. Boobs." "I'm going to find an old fashion photo booth and take my photo there. Do you have anything to say about my manuscript". "It needs work. What else are you working on?", he asks. I cross my arms over my chest and lie, "Just this".
Our meeting ends and I return to our flat in South London. Lars is getting ready for work while playing around with our beagle. I named our rescue dog Tom Brady. Lars has no idea who that is. I teach yoga and pilates at a studio three blocks down the road. There is a full moon and I will conduct the monthly Full Moon yoga class tonight. I'm drinking my sixth cup of English Breakfast tea, for the day, and sitting in my favorite chair in our living room. I watch and giggle at my two favorite men.
