What Not to Do

On the day of my last book’s publication the editor insisted on a celebratory lunch. Okay, I said, okay; even though I didn’t particularly feel like one—I wasn’t sure the situation actually called for celebration. But for a writer it is not a politic thing to refuse a publisher’s lunch—especially if your agent and publicist have also been invited—so I dressed to the nines and ordered a taxi to take me to a very smart restaurant. This was an occasion, after all. And I’d never been to this restaurant; it is a fabulously expensive one, and I am a writer. 

The taxi driver picked me up precisely when he’d been ordered to and the traffic was flowing smoothly: I would arrive on time, all was going well. But about ten minutes from our destination I started weeping. I couldn’t stop. My gentle Afghani driver kept on turning to me in alarm, asking if I was all right, wanting to take me home. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, wiping the tears from my cheeks. I asked to be dropped off around the corner from the restaurant. The taxi driver didn’t want to let me out into the world (he was being extremely fatherly). I insisted. But as I waved goodbye to this kindly man, the dam burst. He disappeared into the distance and the tears became great keening howls and there I was, on the day of publication, wandering the streets of London’s Fitzrovia as if I had just suffered the most terrible bereavement.