One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [40]
Acheron’s attitude was not atypical. There were few who didn’t think an all-out genre war between Women’s Fiction and Racy Novel was pretty much inevitable. The more absorbing question was, Will it be broadcast live? And then, Will it involve me or damage my own genre?
“Dogma will almost certainly be dragged into the fray,” I said gloomily.
“And Comedy to the south,” added Acheron, “and they won’t like it. I don’t think they were joking when they said they would defend their land to the last giggle.”
The door opened, and the king and queen walked in. They looked a little worse for wear. I nodded a greeting, and they ordered a cappuccino each, which placed Paul in something of a panic—I don’t think he’d ever made one before.
“By the way,” said Acheron, “I think Lettie is the best understudy yet.”
“Carmy?”
“Carmine. Great interpretation. Are you going to keep her?”
“I’ve . . . not decided yet.”
“Just so you know, I approve,” he said. “She can vanquish me any day of the week.” He stared into his empty cup for a moment. “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Is it about your poetry?”
“It’s about Bertha Rochester.”
“Biting again?”
Acheron showed me his hand, which had nasty tooth marks on it.
“Painful,” I agreed. “I told you to keep the bite mask on until the last moment. But you do throw her to her death. She’s allowed to struggle a bit.”
“That’s another thing,” he said as he pulled a pained expression. “Does she have to look at me in that accusatory way when I chuck her off the roof? It makes me feel all funny inside.”
Unlike Acheron, who differed wildly from his in-book persona, Bertha really was bonkers. She had come to us after a grueling forty-six-year stint as Anne Catherick in The Woman in White and was now quite beyond any form of rehabilitation. In a cruel and ironic twist, Grace Poole kept our version of Bertha Rochester locked securely up in the attic. It was safer for everyone that way.
“I’ll have a word,” I said, then asked after a pause, “So . . . why do you think Carmine is so good?”
“Her interpretation is respectful, but with an edginess that is both sympathetic and noir.”
“And you think that’s better than my interpretation?”
“Not better,” replied Acheron diplomatically, “different. And there’s nothing wrong with that,” he added cautiously, finding a piece of invisible fluff on his jacket. “Carmine just plays her in a way that is . . . well, how shall I put it?”
“More readable?”
“She’s an A-4—you’re an A-8. You’d expect her to exhibit a bit more depth.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Don’t sweat it. Carmine can’t handle quantity, and when and if she can, she’ll be off to the bright lights of HumDram/ Highbrow. Your job is assured. Besides,” he added in a lighter tone, “if it did come to a vote, I’d go with you.”
“I’m grateful for that at the very least,” I replied despondently. “So you prefer the real Thursday Next to a more marketable one?”
“Well, yes—and the free time. Poetry is a most absorbing pastime.”
It wasn’t what I really wanted to hear, and after chatting for a few more minutes he left. I finished the paper and wandered back to the book. I had a brief chat with the series prop master on the way. He was the technician responsible for all the interactive objects in the series—items that could be handled or manipulated in some way.
“We’ve managed to repair your car,” he said, “but go easy on it during the car chase. If you could just pull up sharply rather than slewing sideways, I’d really appreciate it.”
We were working to a budget these days. The remaking of the BookWorld had sneakily reorganized its budgetary systems. Instead of the “single-book payment,” we now earned a “reader stipend” for every reading, with a labyrinthine system of bonuses and extra payments for targets. It wasn’t universally liked. Any book that fell below the hundred-readers-a-week level could find itself hit by a double whammy: not enough funds to maintain the fabric of the novel, yet not enough Feedback