Commissioning Editor, London: 1

I haven’t spoken much about the office. I guess this is partly out of deference to my travels, which seemed more interesting at the time, and partly because it is often very dull indeed. But perhaps I should. I am a changed man, I’m undergoing therapy, I’ve left my old roué behind and I crave normality. I’ve re-branded myself, as you can see.

 

As I read through what I’ve written and done, I’m not sure I’m so guilty of aberration. Sleeping with Elsie on the wrong side of the M25 was mistake, yes, as were the Tamales in Washington. I haven’t yet come to a conclusion about any of the deep philosophical points I’ve raised previously, which makes me think I needn’t have bothered. Especially with the pontificating on the recession, which has now been replaced in the news by MPs claiming back oxygen on expenses.

 

My office is large and spacious, in actual fact. My desk is solid wood and, at the moment, strewn with bits of this morning’s Metro, ripped up in a fury at one of the letters it dared to print about some triviality. I realise that its core demographic want pictures of fluffy animals on page 3 (I want breasts, to be honest) but must they condescend to reprinting letters pillorying every latest bête noire? Why can’t we all just get along? I’m being sarcastic. I enjoy it as much as the next man, only not when they are wrong, and then I hate it.

 

So, the desk is in a cube farm, obviously; there are a few other people here or there, arranged around a central break-out zone. Any one who asks me to ‘break out’ is often treated to some impromptu dancing, after which I go to get a double-shot latte from Pret. It’s a like a routine now and it’s hard to break these things. I don’t get a window desk – I face the wall, and that’s fine, because the wall doesn’t eat apples at 11 am with a loud crunching, slurping noise.

 

Bettina sits next to me, on my right. She’s a fellow Commissioning Editor, only on a different list. Drama and Performance Arts, whatever that is. She’s widely networked, which is my nice way of saying she’s a bit sluttish.  To the left of me is a Senior Commissioning Editor who doesn’t really want to be doing it anymore. I often get insensibly drunk with him at lunchtimes after the publishing meeting and celebrate his latest proposal getting through. Each one drives him closer to the edge. To be frank, it’s him who should be writing this column (he was my inspiration), only he can’t string sentences together very well after 2pm and is effectively carried by his very efficient, and very hot, Assistant Editor, Beatrice. She has the window desk, the bitch. He is, most appropriately, called Frank, although asking Frank about drugs in this office is only going to end up with a night at Soho House followed by an arrest of some sort. Street meat wedged in your pocket on the run from the law; ah, Frank. They don’t make them like that any more.  He often tries it on with Beatrice after hours (sometimes during hours if the Publishers are out) but she’s very firm on the point. I tried to load that sentence with symbolism because it’s quite clear she’s tupping someone in Sales, this dashing manager called Marcus who needs whipping to be honest. No one should wear that much cologne. It’s just not right.