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into
account. To justify her hopeless love life, she would say: ‘What other kind of
men could someone like me get?’ Yes, Naomi had had a lot of trouble finding the
right man. I had tried persuading her that ‘Hello, are you the man who’s going to
have visiting rights to my children?’ is not the most enticing of pick-up
lines, but then she did have a point that most men would find a woman her size,
with an aggressive sense of humour to match, somewhat threatening.
    ‘What
do you expect from the male of the species? Different bloody planet! Well, he’s
a dickhead, that’s all I can say,’ she said.
    ‘Yes,
we’ve known that for years, but a very talented and popular one — well, popular
anyway,’ I said, tearing open the package. ‘Don’t worry, though, I’m on the
case. I just wanted you to know in case we have a “life-change” situation on
our hands.’
    ‘Well,
he’s your client. You know how to handle him. I don’t want to have anything to
do with the little slit. God! Men!’ And she threw her little gravel-bag toad
against the picture of Steve McQueen on her wall.
    ‘Fair
enough,’ I replied. ‘I’ll let you know if it gets to RFA dimensions.’
    RFA is
Mullin and Ketts jargon for Red Fucking Alert. In this interchange I was using
it to imply the danger of losing a valuable client. You see, when a man or
woman, but usually a man — as Naomi put it so succinctly — ditches one partner
suddenly for a younger model, it signifies a possible desire for ‘life-change’.
This might be perfectly harmless, but more often than not, the publisher,
editor or producer is the next to be dropped, and then, inevitably, the agent.
This Bella/Chrissie! Samantha could be working on our Jeremy even now,
suggesting new vistas to him. The new sex had obviously made him feel confident
enough to abandon his wife and kids. In the après-sex, she might be urging him
to new professional heights, inspiring him to bigger, better shows, tougher
deals, a new agent.
    You don’t
have to be a Zen master to work this one out. What possible good to a Bella/Chrissie/Samantha,
with her sprightly nipples and tight box, would the old representation be? Previous
alliances from his old pre-bimbo life. She would know pretty soon, if not
already, of Jeremy’s long-standing relationship with Mullin and Ketts and of my
friendship with Susan; of my being Dave’s godfather, even. None of this would
make her feel secure in her new role as Queen Planter. If this were sixteenth
century Italy, we could all soon expect poison in our soup.
    Inside
the package was a note from Jeremy and his front-door key Sellotaped to the
back of an autographed Walker-print of himself. The note asked me to go round
to his place to pick up certain things for him and bring them to the office. He
would explain all when I next saw him. No pleases, no thank-yous. So it was
beginning already.
    Asking
your personal representation to do little favours for you is definitely on the
cards and is normal: checking your travel arrangements, booking tickets for
you, ringing people to apologise for you. Going round to water the plants while
you are away is stretching it a bit, even for an artist with whom one has a
very personal relationship. This is something that could be left to a cleaning
person or neighbour. So Planter’s graceless request was a sign that he had
relegated me, and therefore Mullin and Ketts, to the role of skivvying for him.
I wondered if he had already been lunched by one of the big agencies, like ICM
or Peters Fraser and Dunlop. I wondered how long the ugly process might take. I
pocketed his front-door key and threw away the note. It was half past three. I
had been hoping to see round a couple of flats for my mother this afternoon,
but that would have to wait until some other time. Mum had agreed with me that
it would be best for her to move after Dad’s death. I rang the estate agent’s
to let them know, and I wrote a memo for Tania, to call up